A FEEBLE FOG

There's fog on the river this morning—a pale, ethereal veil that as I look upstream, gradually swallows both color and detail until all I can see is a mysterious luminous wall, beyond which could lie anything from Gollum's lair to Shangri-La. 

The thought occurs that a man of derring-do who'd had his coffee might immediately take it upon himself to venture yonder way and investigate…instead of merely snapping a photo and heading back inside once Moon-the-Dog had conducted her own peregrinations. However, like most such notions not acted quickly upon, the thought soon becomes as diaphanous as the fog itself and fades away.

Ahh, well…it isn't the dense all-enveloping fog the weather service predicted—the sort of fog which offers photo opportunities at every turn; a transfiguring September fog I'd hoped to spend the morning recording. But perhaps it would thicken sufficiently later on, metamorphose from the feeble into the substantial—become a real pea-souper. 

Maybe I ought to pour that second cup of coffee and be patient.