On chilly, humid winter mornings, dank gray fog blankets the campus, its tentacles clinging to clothes and hands and face, its sinister silence dragging me into a world of gloomy stillness. These earth-anchored clouds are the stuff of nightmare, distorting the landscape, the sounds of the world, the voices of friends into alien grotesques worthy of the dreams of Queen Mab.
Other mornings, in the blue dark before dawn, trees, shrubs, lampglow fade in and out of the thick, soft-white mist that caresses the air and mutes the train whistle, the highway traffic, the voice of the security guard greeting me. Flying, I have often thought of the clouds as a landscape of expansive snowdrifts one could sled over, tumble in, build whipped cream igloos and cotton candy families from . . . These mornings give me a taste of living in those clouds and I would like to stay here forever in the beauty of the muffled world.