writing

Morning Fog

A ghostly white fog covers the lake. The far shore sits, I know, but it is unseen. A muggy wind blows; the day is confused. Will it be warm or cold, sunny or gray?

I slide the window shade up for a better view; then slide the window pane up for my friend who is pawing at my feet. He jumps up on his stand, then settles in.

A motion in the grass just outside catches his attention. His body stills and a quiet meh comes from his mouth. A small finch captures his attention as it seeks out grubs for breakfast.

His head arches upward as the bird takes flight. He settles back down and stretches out, resting his sweet little face on his paws. His face is still kittenish even at his senior age of eight.

His litter mate comes up behind us both and taps my foot with her paw. A demanding mew echoes causing brother to jump a bit. I look down at my other ball of fur.

She taps then mews again, then beckons me to follow her to the wellspring for a sip of glorious nectar. For us humans, this is known as the bathtub and water, respectively. I give into her request as she has trained me, then pet her head.

I return to the bedroom after a moment and spy the fog lifting. No matter what the weather brings, I know. It’s going to be a wonderful Saturday.

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