Tonight my pasture reminded me of Carl Sandburg.
His poem, Fog, has long come to mind on nights like these.
I particularly like the first stanza:
"The fog comes
on little cat feet"
Indeed, it does.
I was fortunate to get a picture tonight,
amidst the dishes and multitasking involved in an
average evening at my house.
It crept rather rapidly.
By the time I'd gotten back to the kitchen,
the cows were nearly obscured.
It covered the landscape and
the night sounds seemed to whisper in its presence.
I enjoy watching the fog come in.
It lends a magical quality to the twilight of the day.
It requires me to stop and appreciate,
reflect, ponder, wonder, and sigh.