|When the fog horns sound from Head Harbour and the American shoreline the world is lulled in a wet blanket and all other sounds have ceased. Each fog horn has its own frequency and while the rhythm between the two is irregular, it sounds like they compete with each other. The big maple leaves are dripping of the fog, and the edge of the forest becomes a secretive wall. I trudge along the street where nobody is out yet. The houses seem to be uninviting, like they have enough with themselves today.|
Farther across, the bay is cloaked in a grey mass. No ships are out there. Too dangerous for navigation.
After a while the fog is lifting off and the world turns out its colours. Where it was grey before it turns blue and green and finally, through a hole, the sun peeks out, bathing us in warming rays.
It’s gonna be another nice day.