on Christmas Day

Fog, it's fog season again. Sandburg, right? Carl Sandburg. "The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on." 

He must have been thinking of Chicago fog, eh?, not ours. Our fog doesn't move on, it stays for the season it defines for itself about this Time every year.

So, it's good, fog season, I like it. I'm not at sea, nor going up in the air Junior Birdmen, and trying to avoid driving in it. 

Lost, I've lost my train of thought for this blogpost, haven't I. Yes, I have, it's rhetorical, so on my own I reckon a question mark is not essential. And not only has my thought evaporated, the large chunk of panettone I ate with my mug of hot & black has caused my bp to plummet, shutting my brain down, so back to bed for a short winter's nap this early morning 2025, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day. 

... and may all your Christmases be white fog

on Christmas Day in the morning.

For life itself with no regrets, RSF&PTL

T90