Fog The fog comes inOn little cat feetAnd sits on haunchesOver looking the harbourAnd then moves on.- Carl Sandburg The Fogg Museum has paperweights.They wait for you to hold them in your hand.Their beauty has not diminished with age.Paper just waits to be written upon.A page just waits to be turned.The weight of a page, The weight of a time, But fog is weightless waitlessLike the tide waiting weightless with foam for no man.Weights wait to be lifted.One's soul waits to be nourishedAs we wait the cesium atom quivers, Quivers full of outrageous arrows slung with kismetPainting out paths the future may take.While you wait, weighted with your past, As Metallica bids you "Turn the Page"I bid you: Why Wait? Read and savor Swans of the Boundary WatersBy Linda Marie Hilton