The air is heavy with fog this morning. There are no lights to see in the distance and the only sounds I hear, except for passing cars, are the sounds of the fog that is gathering on the tin roof sliding down into the gutters. It sounds like rain. My roof. The cloud catcher. It reminds me of stories I’ve heard about people in Chile and Peru doing the same in the Andes, spreading large nets to capture the sea fog to drink and grow crops.
Of course, my fog is a passing thing and theirs is a constant, but it’s nice to know how it works and hear it in action. Although, it’s sobering to think while I’m gathering for pleasure they’re gathering out of necessity because Lima gets less than one inch of rain a year and the poor get to hold the short end of the water stick. So, that probably qualifies as subsistence living and I wonder, if they had the chance or desire to write about it, would they see beauty in the fog.