Another morning of fog.

In this barely daylight I watch a cardinal perched on the neighbor's eave. He is a red jewel in the mist, bobbing, flicking his crest, then bursting into flight.

The house is quiet. The street is quiet. The fog is a curtain of quiet.

Yesterday I worked in the garden: transplanting carrots, fennel, kale; sowing arugula and lettuce; harvesting peas, broccoli, chard, onions, a few early fingerling potatoes. But the peas are done now, so today I'll tear out the vines, fold up the trellis, plant a fall crop of something or other in their place. 

The fog is beautiful but also melancholy, or perhaps I am melancholy. I sit here with my cup of coffee, writing words to you, but spilling over wordlessly . . . worries and dreams . . . the well of the inarticulate woman is dark and still; drops of cloud cling to her hair; an underworld river murmurs.