Metaphor

A warm winter’s morning, unusual after the recent blizzard.  Drizzle raises a thick fog in the predawn darkness.  The morning routine is anything but.  I load my cooler and day bag into the trunk and shrug into my favorite lime sweatshirt.  It feels odd.  I’m sure I’ve forgotten something.  The garage door rumbles up revealing only gray.

I could make this drive with my eyes closed.  I might as well this morning.  Hopefully the deer are hunkered down and not wandering the highways.  I find myself thankful for my extra fog lights.  God bless those Teutonic engineers.  I’d never even heard of rear fog lights until I owned a German car.

The weather, the time, and Sunday morning all conspire to make my commute a lonely one.  A small black car lost in a sea of gray.

As I crest the bridge into Witch City, suddenly the lights of the power plant spring from the gloom.  The fog quickly disspates, and the whole city lies spread before me in the early morning light.

I love it when life imitates art, if only for a moment.

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