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  • Sitting on the porch, wrapped in the soft grey of morning I watch the boat, bobbing on its anchor beyond the dock disappear, appear, disappear, as fog drapes itself over me and the bay and the boat, swirling about with sensual ease, the Ginger Rogers of weather. I'm drawn to dresses of taupe linen, white silk, and silver taffeta. They are my faux fog worn when I return, reluctantly, to the dry desert.

    I have known less benign fog, when like a shape-shifter, misty silver turns blinding white, and gentle caress becomes gripping terror. But this morning I sit in the safety of my shore bound perch, alert to the putt putt of the boat just off-shore, making its way through buoys and traps. The fog for the fisherman is no taffeta skirt...
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