The Fog

This must be colorblindness. A thick whiteness glided stealthily through the city obscuring all color and texture from my eyes. Bright brick reds faded to dull browns, the only color left as the cool cream of the city's stone buildings blended into the opaqueness of the rolling fog. White sky, white city, white water. But yet, the fog seemed to be avoiding the lake, as if it might be snatched up, rolled into a ball, and hurled across the Atlantic by an impatient Poseidon. Instead it hugged the steep walls of the buildings, filling the canyons in between. It slid in waves across them, like smoke from a grill. It seeped downward as if it could not bear its own weight. It rose vertically like clouds of ascendancy, and dissipated just as quickly. And every time I thought it was clearing, a new front came sneaking around the corner to engulf me in a pillow of nothingness. It is calming and terrifying, peaceful and exhilarating. I wish it would never end, but then, it always does. It's spring in Chicago again.