By Natallie St Onge

There was fog on the freeway that day.  It stained the clouds with hints of hesitation, pierced the bridge that covered the rotting yellow lines with a shade of melancholy and dissipated into the sights of the brave who had the will to look.  The sun was little to no presence, its rays commuting to other sources of life that needed its color to live, like the sea whom depended upon the warmth to guide the waves.  Relevant and dense, hard to see through, easy to know who it is, the fog on the freeway was there that day.