I lost track of time in the fog. I had wandered down a side road in my truck, filling time between dropping off and picking up one of my twins. The road ended at the water.

I got out and walked to the top of a set of wooden steps leading down to the beach. The fog hung thick, curtaining abandoned moorings anchored in glassed water mirroring gray sky. Evenly spaced birds lined a breakwater like school children properly spaced and waiting. What were they waiting for? Why such a proper line? Why face the same direction? Did they notice summer visitors lined for ice cream?

At the water’s edge, birds balanced on stick legs and pecked at wet sand. A few rocks broke the surface of the receding tide, barren islands protected by winged sentinels. The tops of erosion fences reached up from beneath burying sand. Two signs of equal size, both facing the same direction side by side, offered commentary on the state of things. One announced the beginning of the private beach, the other designated the end of the public beach. Two signs, one message: Stay Out.

Standing at the top of the steps, I heard two different vehicles pull up and leave. One played music over the radio, the other a news program. Each stayed only long enough to turn around at the dead end. Were they lost? Looking for solitude? Out for a drive, not a walk? Did they note the fog and figure there would be nothing to see?

It was the formation of flying birds appearing from the fog that held me. I watched their flight in anticipation of their disappearance. How often do we watch for the end? Read to turn the last page? Do something to have it behind us? How does remembering yesterdays and imagining tomorrows impact todays? When is being present reduced to standing in line? 

The fog curtains a smaller stage – one where we can absorb everything, where we are not distracted by the horizoned expanse of a clear day. There is something comforting about reduction. The window cracked to hear the rain clearly, a favorite blanket pulled to our chin, the crackle of the first fire of the season, tea still too hot to sip, and a book we have been waiting to begin. 

Cocooned, we are free to grow from who we were into who we are becoming, all the while considering who we are. The present: a third space born from past and future – impossible without their union and unlike either. Clarity comes from inhabiting a space small enough that we can touch the edges, and windowed by past and present, so we can see simultaneously what is behind and ahead – capsulated for progress.

Fogged, we move slowly, making our way through the darkened room, feeling for the quilted edge of the bed, then the rounded corner of the night stand, then the closed book to retire our glasses, and finally the pillow – careful not to wake the one already sleeping.

Looking into the fog beyond the birds – anticipating their disappearance became a contest – a race against time. How much longer would I see them? Would they fade or suddenly be gone? Were they flying to reach the fog, exhausted by its combined retreat and pursuit?  Flight navigated by instinct – an inner compass directing.

The birds were a moment. The kind of picture bought, framed, and hung on the wall. A reminder of a place visited. A view breathing life into a windowless wall. The miracle of flight captured, conjuring a dream waiting to be chased while fading with the passing of each day; until, predictably and suddenly – it vanishes from possibility. The rain check never honored. The ring not promised. The “I’m sorry” unsaid. The forgiveness withheld. The chance never taken – too uncertain to leap, no wings for flight. So much to reach for – until you can’t.

Looking down at my watch, I realized I had overstayed. The fog had revealed so much. I had lost track of time. I turned to leave, climbed into my truck, and disappeared into the fog from which I had come. Did the birds notice? Had we been watching each other? 

As I drove away from the water, the fog lifted. I wondered if the birds had been traveling home, collecting family along the way. The end of another busy day. Looking forward to being home, nested and safe for sleep – protected from the outside world, reaching for that peaceful moment when your body feels heavy, the day fades, and tomorrow feels too distant to see – leaving you anchored for dreaming.

The present is not temporal – it is not a place we stop at along the way. It is not a break from living.  The present is where we move forward without being held by the past or directed by the future. Compassed by dreams, we fly between it all, the past beneath and the future overhead.  

Tomorrow never comes. Yesterday is gone. What matters most, what gives us the courage for flight, is the company we keep.