The Maine coast is socked in with fog.
I love what fog does to sounds.
At this hour, it is dead quiet...I mean DEAD quiet.
I am standing out on my deck, taking the evening miasma, and having my last cigarette before going to bed.  The moon is a micronic sliver, and the fog/clouds are souping over it like sludge.
All the leaves are gone now, and the trees are sticking up like weird static dendrites.
I suddenly realize I am rocking side to side, legs stiff, like some kind of demented gingerbread man, making the accross-the-road neighbor's doorbell light go off, on, off, on, off, on as my gingerbread man dance shifts it alternatly behind and between the dendrites.

I realised last week that if I turn my head towards the other house, and burp with gusto, it echos....that amsuses me.

so i drop my butt into the leaf and rain filled unemployed flower pot that I have kind of adopted as an ashtray, turn my head before opening the door, and slash the foggy silence by letting rip with a huge and juicy belch.