THE fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I knew something was afoot when my sister Ellen texted me first thing in the morning.
“Can you hear the fog horns?”
This was weird because she was in Tampa … and I was in New Orleans. What was she – clairvoyant?
Truth is, she works at a TV station and often keeps track of what’s going on at our travel destinations (which served us well when we were living in Sudan and then-President Reagan bombed Libya).
Overnight, a dense fog had descended upon New Orleans and blanketed the Mississippi River in a nearly impenetrable cloud. Hence the fog horns. And yes, we could hear them from our apartment.
We knew this was too good to miss, so we jumped on the bus (the Streetcar was closed due to repairs) and headed to the French Quarter, bordered by the mighty Mississippi.
The scene at Jackson Square was surreal. There was an eerie hush to a place normally so full of life.
We could barely make out the distinctive steeple of the Saint Louis Cathedral.
The fortune tellers pretended it was business as usual.
And the motorcycle cop rode along silently.
When we went to gaze upon the river … we couldn’t. It just wasn’t there anymore, except for the ominous fog horns.
Thinking of Carl Sandburg,