Now fog

Last night, I got on the crowded bus last, so I was forced to stand up right at the entrance, right next to the front window.  I put all my bags down and plugged into my iPod and after one last stop, the bus drove express for six miles up Lake Shore Drive, the lake spread out dusky blue in twilight off to my right, apartment and office buildings rising up to my left.  A storm was rising over the city, but streaks of daylight remained out far off the lake.

As I rode, my music raging, I could forget anyone else was on the bus, I could look out the glass ahead of me and just see the cloud creeping closer and closer, lightning splitting the sky like a grin.  It felt like flying, or maybe like being at the prow of a ship (without the crippling seasickness I get on the water).

I owned the city, and I made that storm, and I coaxed it out over the tall tall buildings and I unleashed it, flying low and fast along the avenue that is Lake Shore Drive.

When I got home and was safe inside my house, the rain became hail and battered the house, as if to rebuke me for being so capricious as to tease it out and then abandon it while I retreated to comfort.

I listened to the intensity of its desperation fondly.  From safe inside.  And I didn't go out again.

Today the city is encased in fog so thick I can't see buildings 100 yards away.

Don't worry, nature, I want to say.  I can't escape you.  If you want to crack open my house, shower me with rain, pelt me with hail, or sweat me out with heat, you can.

All my safety is temporary.