Fog The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.   Carl Sandburg   While I surely do admire Mr. Sandburg's work, he forgot to mention the cold. We have been foggy for a few days now, and it has been intensifying the way the cold FEELS. Everyone just lived through below zero temperatures around these parts not that long ago. But the most complaining about cold has come in the last few days. We almost saw the sun come out up here by us this morning, but it was a brief tease that never fulfilled its promise. So, the frost continues to grow on everything. While I was going back and forth to the barn for wood, I saw a few things on my garden fence.   Chicken wire with ice thorns.   A morning glory seed pod with ice thorns.   And a welcome sign that looks decidedly UNwelcoming. Spooky even. *** My version of Carl's poem... Fog Ice Fog comes on Elephant feet. It sits glaring on forest and garden freezing their soul and then stays to gloat. ***   Even Bruce is dreaming of a vacation.