Fool's Fog.

One of the new barometers over here: Can you see the steeple? In this fog—a huge, dampening fog of the sort I've only really ever seen driving over mountains in NC or TN, or at least that's how I've got it remembered—you cannot. You can see where the lights on top of the church gym think it probably ought to be, and if you hold one eye closed you can decide you can see what would, if it were a real belfry, be the belfry light, but as ANYLF-caliber measuring systems go, this is a desteepled fog.

This is the kind of fog where you tug your boots back on and go stand on the front walk and watch the porch lights blocks down soften themselves into blurs. This is the kind of fog where if you had sleeping kids upstairs, you'd go and wake them up to show them: Look, you'd say, this is fog. This is what the fancies mean when they say that. Now go back to sleep and stop asking for glasses of milk, please.

I'd take a picture, but it wouldn't matter. Here's how it is: The dogwood out front is barely blooming, most of the petals still green, and some just white—but they're all of them full of water, of fog, collecting what's there to be collected, which is, this first night of April, plenty.