The fog horns are sending out their plaintive bass moan over the bay as oil-slick waters slosh in slow ripples against the docks. Workers shuffle towards dim yellow lights, paper cups of coffee steaming in their calloused hands. Their voices are a low hum, almost as if the sound itself is buffeted by the fog. The ground is damp, reflecting the feeble glow of streetlights down the dim alley.
That's how it would be if there was a bay, foghorns or longshoremen hereabouts. Instead, suburbanites climb into their cars and drive off through the fog to shuffle paper. Their coffee is most likely in a Yeti or Starbacks cup.
It is Tuesday here in the heartland.
I woke early, back in the recliner after a one night go in bed Sunday. I settled in to greet the grandgirls, only to discover they are coming late today. Nobody bothered to tell me. I should have known when the wife failed to come down at the normal time.
The fog isn't just outside, apparently.