Sandberg said fog comes on the feet
of cats, silent until moving on —
I say fog comes on the spindly limbs
of daddy longleg spiders,
tickling tenderly across meadows,
draping long and lazy over trees,
vibrating with the dawning sun,
beautiful and dangerous —
the fog and the spider.
Wednesday, the pups and I walked in and out of a fog that was draped like lace over trees with the colors of dawn striped above, that shimmered ghostly on dewy grass, and appeared as a dirty window in the distance, never dense enough to hide the arriving sun, never deep enough to cause concern.