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 an