I think everyone on the East Coast was taking fog photos yesterday morning. You PNWers may have the corner on it, but every so often we'll get a good dose on the right hand side of the US too. I had a feeling it might be coming. I'd been out to dinner with a friend the night before, and the fog was gathering around our ankles as we headed home. It was the most surreal site, a full moon above me and fog forming below, that I've seen in a long time.

So I wasn't surprised to hear the fog horns blowing when I got up Wednesday morning. I love that sound.

When Neel headed out to work, I grabbed my camera and was out the door shortly behind him. It was a funny walk to my river. Quiet, the way you'd imagine a foggy morning would be, and oddly loud too. Sounds heightened on the near-invisible streets. Kids headed out to school, doors banging behind them as they disappeared into the gloom. The birds were loud too, the crackle of a crow a constant refrain. Mixed in with the intermittent lowing of the foghorn was the drip, drip, drip of the moisture all around me. And the slap of waves against the shore.

I spent some time at the water, nodding to the dog walker who'd also come to see how far our vision could stretch and listen to the call and response of the fog horn. By the time I turned to go home, if you looked straight up you could see a hint of blue in the sky. Just the barest of hints, really.

And then, after a long while, the sun came out.