Last night was odd – the weather suddenly spiked from the low teens to the sixties, and I’m not sure the melting snow knew how to deal with that. Out on the old pond in town, the ice that had been floating on the surface of the murk had dissipated, forming this creepy-looking fog that seemed to emanate from the water and creep out onto the park and the street next to it – giving the entire New Market stretch of town this subtly malevolent vibe, washing the fog in traffic light tones.
There’s a poem somewhere in there, but I haven’t written it yet. Maybe I’m a little bit worried about sounding too much like T.S. Eliot.