Hello again, furriends, my fellow seekers of feline wisdom, poetic fogbanks, and soft-footed truths. Today’s poem is short, quiet, and perfectly cat-shaped. It doesn’t demand your attention – it simply appears, settles in beside you, and waits for you to notice. In other words: it behaves exactly like me. Some days.
Let’s take a look at this misty marvel of a poem.
A Look at “Fog” by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
My Thoughts
Let me begin by saying: finally. A human who understood—even briefly—that when something soft, quiet, and inevitable brushes past you… it is most certainly cat-shaped.
The fog comes / on little cat feet.
Of course it does. Fog doesn’t blare its arrival. It doesn’t knock or announce itself. It slips in. Low. Quiet. Without apology. That is exactly how I enter a room I was told not to be in.
And then—
It sits looking / over harbor and city / on silent haunches / and then moves on.
Yes. Yes. A thousand times, yes. That moment—sitting, watching, judging just a little. We cats don’t always act. Sometimes we simply observe. We take in the whole scene with slow blinks and sharp ears, and we decide:
…Do I engage?
…Do I nap here?
…Do I disappear before they notice?
And when we move on? It’s not retreat. It’s intention.
Sandburg understood the stillness. The watching. The silence that says more than sound ever could. His fog is not just a weather pattern—it’s a presence. A mood. A metaphor with whiskers.
He didn’t over-explain. He didn’t clutter the poem with loud language. He let the image curl in and curl away, like a tail.
To that, I say: well done, Carl. You wrote a poem not about cats, but as a cat. And that, dear reader, is rare.
A Tribute: “Whiskers in the Mist”
A poem by Tyson the Cat
I come without sound.
You do not see me arrive,
but you feel the air shift.
Cooler.
Softer.
Strange.
My paws press nothing,
yet you hear them.
Or think you do.
I sit on the edge of your morning
like a question with fur—
tail curled,
ears tall,
eyes reflecting something you forgot to notice.
I do not speak.
I do not need to.
I stay
just long enough for you
to wonder
if I was ever really there.
Then—
I am gone.
Like fog.
Like thought.
Like me.
A Stillness with Whiskers
Some poems meow. Others pounce. But this one? It simply arrives. Sandburg doesn’t try to define fog—or cats—because he knows better. Some things are best experienced, not explained.
As a fellow silent observer, I recognize the grace in that choice. To sit quietly, to see without needing to speak, to move on when it is time—that is not just a fog’s way. It is our way.
So next time you see the mist rolling in across the street or the sea, remember: You’re being watched. Silently. Patiently. Lovingly.
Possibly by fog.
Possibly by me.
Your Turn, Furriends!
Does this poem remind you of your favorite feline? Have you ever been caught in a moment of foggy stillness that felt… whiskered? Let me know your thoughts in the comments below!
Purrs and gentle stillness,
Tyson 🐾
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