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In Chicago, the fog comes in on little cat feet, or so said poet Carl Sandburg. On Jocassee, I imagine that the fog comes sweeping in on the wings of a great blue heron. In fact, I have seen it. As the heron lands, the fog settles, enshrouding the landscape in a misty veil of gray. The gray suits the heron, who also settles into her customary stillness and gazes across the water. I imagine she is pleased, as am I, that at least for today, all we can see is the fog, and the little world we are sharing is hushed and still. She stands there for a long time, lost in heron-thought, until finally, having remembered she must take care of some heron-business I couldn’t possibly understand, she takes flight and disappears – quickly swallowed by the fog. Perhaps we will meet again one bright sunny day when the boat I drive disturbs her and she reluctantly leaves her fishing spot for a quieter cove. That day, I will surely whisper my apologies to the universe for disturbing her and think of the quiet morning we spent together- sharing a space, staring into the fog. ~Betsy Lewis, JLT naturalist guide.