The fog is tucked close to the house. I can see the Redwood tree, and there the world ends in a sea of light gray.
I have been reading the news and my head wraps in fog. I sit like a bird on a branch of a tree and gently bounce my branch on an imagined tree of stability.
Perhaps this crisis makes it ever more clear that the world is one, and my breath is yours, and yours mine. In and out of our lungs it goes, in and out of heart, trust, love, and the warm, egg-filled nest of twig-lined soul.
