in the fog
A dozen crows flew over the freeway. Dark, purposeful wings stroking through the morning fog.
The commuters beneath them seemed disoriented in the low-hanging cloud, but the birds flew swiftly toward their destination.
Fog strips my bearings. I know where I am, yet I can’t see it. I can’t anchor the map in my head to my surroundings.
I grow tentative. I question what may emerge without warning. When one of my senses is diminished, I become increasingly cautious.
As I squint and strain, I realize how shortsighted my faith can be. The fog rolls in, and I know . . . but I’m not so sure anymore. The landmarks haven’t moved. The truth hasn’t changed. But I can’t see it.
I imagine threats lurking in the mist. I question the steps before me. I doubt and hesitate. I drag my feet and search for confirmation. Even when I know. Clarity clouds over and I cower.
Yet—in fog or in sunshine—the crows’ confidence never wavered.
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