![mountain-fog[1]-755048.jpg](https://webapi.wral.com/api/redirect/image/1101998/640x360)
Author Carl Sandburg who retired in the North Carolina mountains near Hendersonville had a wonderful poem about it:
The fog comes
On little cat feet
It sits looking
Over harbor and city
On silent haunches
And then moves on.
Though I hate to drive in it I love the way fog transforms the landscape. It can take a simple vista and turn it into a mysterious jungle of gray. Trees seem suspended in a mystical meadow. Houses take on the shape of castles. Roads rise up out of clouds and vanish beyond the horizon. Some consider it a bad day in the mountains when the fog socks you in. The sunny scenery is obscured sometimes all day. Sometimes - all week! But I like to take advantage of what the little feline feet bring in. Fog slows the pace of the world. It fuels retreat and contemplation by a roaring fire. It invites one to read and reflect. Fog is good medicine for the soul.
