(Many thanks to Sharkie for finding my many typos and other mistakes.)
Standing on the deck outside the bedroom, I can hear the small waves on the big lake breaking against the sandy shoreline. The moon should be a bit more than half full tonight, but the thin clouds hide it completely just now As I look out I can also see the fog starting to roll in. I notice that part of the shoreline is already lost in the moist, gray blanket with its curtain also damping the night sounds. In the distance I hear a foghorn began to send its low, mournful warning.
I love the fog. In fact, I love many kinds of weather. A gentle, warm spring rain, promising flowers and other new growth. A stiff autumn wind, carrying just a slight chill, driving clouds hard before it, rustling leaves and sending some of their numbers towards the ground. A thick, soft snowfall - as long as I’m inside, preferably with a nice fire even if I do enjoy being out in it sometimes. And a summer thunderstorm. Just the thought of one sends shivers down my back, but shivers of a good nature. I find thunderstorms some of the sexiest weather of all and unless it is a dangerously strong one, they always turn me on.
But I think the weather I love best is a warm night with a cool, moist fog sliding over everything. Shrinking the world to a smaller and smaller space. One occupied by just myself and my lover. Like tonight. I watch the fog roll in and restlessly wait for him to get home. As I pace back and forth letting the world fill my senses, I think back to the first time I met him. It was also in the fog. I remember even further back than that - back to earlier times where fog still played an important roll.