The last two mornings I’ve awakened to a dense fog, a softened world. No hard edges, no horizon, like the fuzzy innards of a favorite sweatshirt.

When I look out the window I see the back fence but nothing beyond it. My boundaries are narrowed, and for once I’m not complaining. A foggy morning comforts just-opened eyes, soothes winter-worn skin. It asks no favors.

Yesterday I was out and about early in the fog. I walked around Lake Anne, marveling at how little I could see, marveling too at how the lake became an Impressionist painting.

Today, with the faraway blocked, the close-at-hand takes center stage. I watch a pair of cardinals frolic in the witch hazel tree.