Fog has always attracted me powerfully; I can remember countless mornings as a child looking out of my bedroom window and being mesmerized that the streetlight just across the cul-de-sac was nearly invisible, its light barely reaching me, like a lantern held by a ghost. Fog to me has always conjured a peaceful, yet ominous sort of quiet, in which it seems the world is thinking about becoming real, but hasn’t quite made up its mind.
I always found it easy on those mornings to believe that there were terrible things hiding in the fog—ghosts, I figured, and shadowy demons (a tip of the hat to Stephen King for helping with this nightmare fuel). Making breakfast one foggy morning, I found myself wondering about the aftermath if, for one reason or another, human civilization simply vanished. Perhaps then, for the animals wandering through foggy mornings like the one I was watching from my window, we would be the ghosts in the mist. It may seem strange to discuss fog so much, but the poem was born out of that impulse—an imaginative leap into the future on a misty morning. Here’s hoping said future remains imaginative for a long, long time.