Ribs on the grill. We can do that comfortably this time of year. Still, sitting in my favorite lawn chair for four hours, watching the thermometer on the grill hood to know when to add more charcoal, can get a bit chilly. The jazz on the radio was good motivation to stand up. I just had to move. The dog watched from her cushion.

50°F and foggy. Visibility about fifty yards. With about fifteen minutes of light left I caught glimpses of large wings in and out of the mist. Once the sun set, about seventy-five yards away small animal was lamenting its capture. The dog’s ear perked, but she couldn’t see any better than I. I’m guessing that earlier it was an owl.

I could see from the light on the garage that we were in a cloud, the mist that thick. Depending on how I exhaled, my breath floated up for some distance. Fast, it blended quickly into the fog; slowly and deeply, it formed a cloud of its own for a good five feet. The dog nudged her food bowl but did not eat.

Our dinner guest arrived, the dogs were reacquainted and with the wood stove to keep us warm, we ate well and had many laughs. A line came to mind, imagining an old man in a poem: “Old beef tastes of fish. Never mind I will eat both if pressed.”