Writing in a fog

Wicked cold fog this evening. Not the least bit transparent, just a dense almost opaque gray. And quiet- the fog muffles all sound. While I am a boy of the sun, I can appreciate a day like this, "cloud hidden and whereabouts unknown." Perfect for reading old Chinese nature poetry by the fire. It reminds me a bit of my time in the Bay Area, where the fog could swallow you up in 30 minutes from a brilliant sunny day.

I'm remiss on blogging the completion of my trip. I have excuses, but won't give them. I'm thinking maybe tonight.

Last night about 2:30 am there was convention of screech and hoot owls. It sounded like they had surrounded the house. Maybe there was an owl convention or something. Their cacophony woke me up, and got the dogs to barking. I love it when the owls are going crazy, the noise they make is otherworldly. I sometimes see one in the dawn, but only hear them in the dusk. They are magnificent birds. I don't remember hearing so many of both types at the same time, usually its one or the other. Anybody have an idea of what that might mean?

Cobbling together a supper of leftovers, contemplating opening a bottle of wine to sip on. Much to do and say tonight, so I hesitate; with the lack of light, and my tendancy to early bedtimes, a glass of red might make the evening earlier than I want it to be. Decisions, decisions.