Foggy on the first day of 2023, which I’ve no reason to expect will be substantially different from 2022 in the general run of things. Presidents come and go, epidemics, this spring’s fashions, hog futures. Demonstrations. Hogs and fogs forever.
Fog comes and goes like the wind, sun, moon, rain. Comes and goes like Canada geese. You don’t pay too much attention to it except when it’s so dense you have to drive the motor car at 32 knots instead of 55. Add a white-out blizzard and you’re down to 20, even 15 in a caravan of cautious pensioners. Finally, you drop down the hill to the south gate of the city and you’re out of the clouds. As if there were a border there and damned glad of it.
Another geese gaggle in the field yesterday. Cheap fowly junket to the south, stabbing at grubbies in the stubble. They’re always Canadian, never any other kind. Coming and going across the border as if there weren’t a border because they can’t see one, the reason for this being that there isn’t one.
Or they’d have special Visa’s. Migrant passes, special dispensations from Rome or something.
Descending out of the soup into ten-mile visibility, crosswinds at five knots. Taxiing without a taxi.
“Where you headed today?”
“Nature of your business?”
(Nature of yours?) (Yawn) “Same as last year. Seasonal cycle, blah blah. Survival, perpetuation of the species, a little R&R…”
“Are you carrying any illegal substances today? Weapons, drugs, invasive species? Poached whale blubber? Anything that might upset our fragile economy?”
“Open your flaps, please?”
“Okay, good to go. See you in April.”