One evening last week—Monday, I believe it was—I was on my way to work when I had one of those thoughts I believe most of us have from time to time in one way or another. It was late in the evening, already dark, and a fog had settled over the city. Neither a heavy nor a light fog—a medium fog, I guess—it softened the edges of things near and obscured things entirely only at about three or four blocks distance; getting palpably heavier and thicker around the Lake Street/Marshall Avenue bridge, both because of the relative lowness of the area and of the presence of the Mississippi River below. The quaint round-globed streetlights on the bridge were haloed with a lovely pearlescent glow, and the red warning of the traffic light was somehow less unfriendly than usual.
I was struck by the beauty of that view across the bridge and up Marshall as far as Cretin Avenue (where buildings finally faded from sight) and I thought, “I really should phone in to work and tell them I’ll be late, turn around and grab my camera and tripod, and come back here to try to get some photos of this!”
But … well … I didn’t.
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