The Fog & The Mud

by Robert Wildwood

The night before the fog.

The night before the fog. Somewhere downriver from St. Genevieve in the boonies. Only ours, blue heron, and coyote tracks on the beach.

Sunrise.

Sunrise.

 

 

Thru the fog the sound of engines idling, the hum of towboats that took themselves to shore to wait out the impenetrable fog. As the sun burns the fog off you hear them rev up and return to the channel, free from the fog’s grip.

 

The muddy bank welcomes us to Cape Girardeau. My foot went in up to the knee.

The muddy bank welcomes us to Cape Girardeau. My foot went in up to the knee. The paper lantern pepper plant that Angela and Michael gave us in St. Charles is still kicking out peppers.

 

Tucked away up a drainege, nestle under the train bridge, we watch the towboat go by and their wake sends nothing more than a gentle ripple our way. A good spot, tho the flooding has made a mud cake bake of the bank. The coffee in town at Grace Cafe is the finest. I was sad to go there and hear that they were closing down. Why do all the good things go away.

Tucked away up a drainege, nestled under the train bridge, we watch the towboats go by and their wake sends nothing more than a gentle ripple our way. A good spot, tho the flooding has made a mud cake bake of the bank. The coffee in town at Grace Cafe is the finest. I was sad to go there and hear that they were closing down. Why do all the good things go away.