Fog wraps the little northern city in an eiderdown. The fog is so dense that the neighbor's next-door roof is barely visible from my bedroom window. Something the color of fog is trotting up the sidewalk: it is my white cat, emerging from a prowl among the wet pink tulips.

Overnight, maple fluff has magicked into small leaves, a tender new canopy, fog-blurred. Fog smears every windshield on the street. Fog coils down the chimneys. Even inside the houses the air has a whiff of brine. The fog is the sea come a-calling.

I spent much of yesterday at my desk, but I did manage to finish that editing project, so today will be housework, poem work, and garden work before I go out tonight to write. I may even take a trip to the nursery for tomatoes, peppers, and basil seedlings. I think it's safe to plant the tender crops now. The weather is certainly not warm, but temperatures are steadily mild and the soil is full of welcome.

[Grievance sidebar: Gasoline-powered leaf blowers in triplicate, roaring and farting along the backyard fence in excruciating disharmony. I beg you: Do not own one. They are the worst.]

I'm still feeling a little blue, but oh well. The fog is also blue. We will be blue together.