I drove to work in a thick fog this morning. I could see just enough of the brake lights in front of me to keep moving, and certainly nothing of the next stoplight. The world was tiny, densely quiet, and completely grey.
Then, just moments before I arrived at work, I sat stopped behind the car in front of me. I could see that the fog still hanging around my car became great reaching columns of mist ahead and then faded into crisp clear lavender sky. On the suddenly visible horizon, there were a few shadows of trees and above, a pink-tinged cloud. A single bird trilled. I knew that the sun would rise.
And then the sun did rise, golden and fiery and painful to look at over the parking lot of Thomson Reuters.
Then, just moments before I arrived at work, I sat stopped behind the car in front of me. I could see that the fog still hanging around my car became great reaching columns of mist ahead and then faded into crisp clear lavender sky. On the suddenly visible horizon, there were a few shadows of trees and above, a pink-tinged cloud. A single bird trilled. I knew that the sun would rise.
And then the sun did rise, golden and fiery and painful to look at over the parking lot of Thomson Reuters.
