My fog sits sulking in the corner. It only spoke twice. It said, Please. Later it said, Thank you. I don’t know why or for what. I know not all fogs are so polite. What about the fog that forms on the mountain and creeps downward, full of enemy soldiers? They carry no guns or grenades, just daggers and swords. What about the killer London fog? The poisonous fog that was sleeping on the bottom of a lake until the lake turned over in its sleep? If I look at the corner where my fog sits, of course it is gone. When I look away the fog resumes its vigil. I hear a foghorn in the distance. It sounds like it is calling out, Your fog. Another foghorn answers it. My fog. Your fog. My fog. I get up and look out the window. Across the street I catch a glimpse of a house I have never seen before. Maybe it was part of a flock of houses migrating through the fog to their winter lots. Yes, that could happen. Everything is moving after all. Just like Los Angeles. One day you look up and see a mountain looming over the distance. Next day it is gone.