It was quite foggy this morning as I made my way to the laboratory. In some areas it was as thick as pea soup, to use a tired phrase. It made me think of one of my favorite poems. It was a favorite of my Dad, as well.


The fog comes

On little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

  • Carl Sandburg, 1878 – 1967
Beautiful Downtown Leeds

Photo credit: Ol’ Big Jim Images



About Ol' Big Jim

Ol' Big Jim, has been a storekeeper, an embalmer, a hospital orderly, a medical biller, and through it all, a teller of tall tales. Many of his stories, like his first book, New Yesterdays, are set in his hometown of Piedmont, Alabama. For seven years, he lived in the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, Amman, Jordan where he spends his time trying to visit each one of the thousands of Ammani coffee shops and scribbling in his ever-present notebook. These days, you can find him back stateside, still filling notebooks.
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8 Responses to Fog

  1. One of my favorite poems as well, Jim. Having lived in the SanFrancisco area the poem would go through my head as a drove cross the Golden Gate Bridge in August.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Jay Squires says:

    Yes, I remember that poem as well. It conjures up the image of fog so well. Thank you for reminding me of it.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Great poem. It’s snowing today up here. Like fog, the snow quiets things down.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Caz Greenham says:

    I just love foggy days, our Jim. Love the poem too.
    We get sea fog here in Brixham. It’s really spook-a-y

    Liked by 1 person

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