Spring Journal: Fog

Sound carries differently in fog—each note sharp and near.

Birdsong fills the white morning. Robins lead the choir, white-throated sparrows whistle sweet melodies, and cardinals add punctuation. Red-winged blackbirds trill from unseen perches, while blue jays pierce the mist with harsh cries—startling as dropped glass. A crow speaks, its voice falling like a stone into still water.

Fog is an earthbound cloud; a piece of the sky comes to rest. One has settled in the valley this morning, still as a napping cat.

These are the same countless droplets suspended between earth and air that usually sail high above, carried by wind currents across their sky-blue ocean. The same mists that form those towering mountains I’ve watched through airplane windows—cloud ranges that seem solid enough to climb.

High above, clouds appear substantial and distinct. But here at ground level, suspended droplets blur boundaries. They gather on eyebrows, dampen clothes, turn the air white as fresh linen, and make every footstep intimate. The familiar world transforms—each sound close, each shape a whisper.

Today, I venture out again. My wheelchair carries me down the long ramp, along the walkway, across the driveway, and up the gentle rise where the fog thins enough to reveal the valley below. Cars rush past on the wet road at the end of the long driveway, their tires cutting sharp sounds through the white air. No matter—this moment belongs to the mist.

Across the stream, trees fade to shadow-shapes against the pearled sky. Nearby, moisture beads on bare blackberry canes, each thorn jeweled with a perfect drop. They shine in the diffused light—a thousand watery mirrors reflecting green grass, brown leaves, white sky.