My sister and her family are visiting from Massachusetts, so tonight we organized an al fresco lobster feed at my parents' house on the river. It was a warm evening with no bugs, and we hung out on the back lawn with beer and chips while the baby was put to bed, catching up. Paul saw a huge fish jump. A raven croaked nearby. I tried to teach my niece how to throw a frisbee. Good, relaxing family time.

Just as dinner was ready to be served, we noticed a fog creeping up the river. Actually, creeping is not the right word, as that makes it sound like this was a slow, gradual progression. The fog was speeding up the river like something possessed. I half expected ghosts of pirates to jump out of the mist. Before we'd even finished cracking open the first lobster claw, the river backdrop was completely blanked out. A white screen. From within that whiteness we heard loons call. At one point my mother's sharp eyes picked out the silvery wake of the beaver on its habitual evening swim upriver. A flock of geese flew noisily past, but we never saw them.

On the drive home, the sky was clear over Mount Megunticook and Mount Battie. We could see a planet hanging bright and low over the ridge line to the east, and thanks to the Planets app on my iPad, we learned that it was Jupiter. Clear to the east, fog bank clinging to the course of the river to the west.

Fog whites out our view:
no sunset, no loons, no geese,
just calls in the mist.