He’s waiting for the fog to clear, he can’t see past the steps on his back porch. I’m still in bed, slightly sleeping — aware of the contrast between my warm comforter and cool blue sheets. There are ten miles or more between us. The sun has yet to rise. He calls to tell me he’s waiting for the fog to clear because he has a three-hundred-mile trip to make in order to retrieve a snowboarding son stranded without a ride. To the other side of the divide and back. I mumble something about kitty litter, back-up-Hershey-chocolate-bars ,being safe and then I fall back into a sort of grizzly bear sleep.
I’m still in sleep mode some time later when my cell phone announces a text message: look outside. see what slipped in on a silver fog.
At first thought: just step out on the back deck with the camera. No reason to get dressed.
But from the deck, I was lured down a flight of slick steps. The bird feeder was beckoning me.
From there: twenty more shots of frost. I forgot I was dressed in long boxers and a t-shirt. Sans socks. Sans mittens. Sans coat. Sans any common winter sense.