Fog in the city is a living thing. At dawn, it lies quietly in the street. A skyscraper lives up to its name, piercing the gloom like a mountain peak emerging from the clouds, reflecting pink light from the east. Around it steam rises from lesser buildings, as smoke from a burning city. The sky is flecked with rosy clouds and an occasional star.
The fog awakes, stretching; it emerges from its concrete bed, encompassing everything. The skyscraper – the very sky – are no more. Only gray remains, and the street below my window is alone in the world.
It shifts again. The streets are clear, as if this were any overcast day. The skyscraper moves in and out of view as the mist hovers and glides catlike around it. Here is a sharp corner; there a glint of sun on glass; now, nothing. And then again, a faint shadow where the tower stood sharply but a moment ago; in another moment, gone.