There’s a twin layer of fog in the front yard, the first being a few feet off the ground and the second being a little over head high. They both seemed to have lifted off the ground for no good reason at all for there is no other fog for them to join. I see bright stars overhead right now and the horizon is clear. But the yard fog seems to be local, interested in my property only, a weather event held for a purpose; this cannot be true.
The road is empty as I leave early in the morning and there is another twin layer of fog near a bottom and my truck slips through it as if I am entering another world and leaving mine behind. Did that not just happen? Even now, I wonder what it took for there to be two layers, not just one, and by what device do they hang so, suspended water particles and air, cooled or heated just so, to create the fog, create the gap between them, and why at this moment is the temperature just right for all of this, as I ease through a morning that is unborn.
A woman is on my mind and I wonder about where she is and if she is awake at this point in time. Very few people are and I wouldn’t be if I had a choice or better meds. At three this morning I woke up and sleep got up and left through the front door as if she wanted nothing else to do with me. This is not the woman’s fault. Or maybe it is.
A man can be moved by a woman, like the ocean is moved by wind, or gravity, or by some unseen force deep underwater, and that moment be towards that woman, but it doesn’t have to be a tsunami or a hurricane. It can be a gentle wave pushed up on short to retreat far from its destination, like a glance across a room or a compliment on the way she carries herself, to let her know you’ve been watching.
That may be all, ever, that we know of one another, the wave upon the shore, the compliment of a notice, and like someone walking barefoot on the beach, she may feel the water at her ankles and smile, but still keep walking. There isn’t a rejection here or a revulsion, just a meeting of flesh and water, and flesh is water, and the passing of time, and time passes.
When you meet someone, or see someone, or you read something they wrote or you see a photo of that person, you might think to yourself that you feel something, and that feeling means you know something about that person, and you do, and you don’t. It doesn’t matter when you’re alone with them because they will sense that feeling, that you know them, that you are interested in knowing more, and maybe they’ll enjoy the sensation and the attention, but then again, maybe they’ll consider it an intrusion, you will never know, until that moment.
It cannot be called back or regenerated, like that wave that kisses the ankle of a woman walking in the surf, she might remember it not at all if it was too slight, and she walks away from the water if the wave washed upon her too hard, but if the wave slips over her feet at just the right moment, leaving tiny shells between her toes as she walks, giving her pause to glance down at the multicolored wonders in the sand, then that was perfect, but there is no way to create that moment it either is or it is not and it will be or never will be, and like the fog in the yard, if you do not walk out into it, and breathe the fog in as you walk into it, you will never know what it was like to be there.
That simple step toward water, lapping at the edge of a beach or suspended above the earth, just over head high, to look at clear and cold stars in the sky through a personal veil made of billions of tiny drops of water, which might look like stars themselves, is a step towards something. The need, the urge, the compulsion to feel and experience something different is the same longing to tell a woman she has beautiful eyes which may well be true yet for a man to say that to a woman is to ask her to feel the water and to look up at the stars, and at that moment, she decides what she will see and she decides what she feels, or she cannot help what she sees and will not disallow what she feels.
It is no wonder we are fascinated and compelled by water, be it the endless ocean or the mist. Mostly, more than anything else, we are a liquid people, made of water, with the properties of the substance in our veins, endlessly flowing, following currents, and being part of a crashing wave or merely a fog. This is who we are in at the essence. We join in with others and there will be a river heading towards some destination and there will be those that fight the current and those who will facilitated it. But we are water, mist and ocean.
My day begins soon and I must leave this place of stars and fog and beaches and ankles. But the woman is still there, as certainly as the blood in my veins carries water, and I wonder if she wonders if I am not deranged by these words of mine, that flow from my thoughts like a spring in the desert? It matters very little. For her feet will feel the water and she will walk through the waves, and perhaps, she will offer a hand, so that we would walk together. The ocean will send its endless waves, large and small, and the morning will lend us her mists.