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April 2017, vol 13 no 1

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Aron Rothstein

Fog Man

The Fog Man came on Thursdays. We kids could hear the compressor minutes before his arrival. Yelling "The Fog Man, the Fog Man!", we'd rush to the top of the big rock by the road and wait to be enveloped in a cloying cloud of DDT sprayed from his Jeep. He always smiled and waved at us before fading to white. So thick that outside our small circle, the world disappeared. Then one summer the Fog Man, no longer smiling, arrived wearing a gas mask. We still yelled "The Fog Man, the Fog Man!", but now with anxiety. We ran to our houses and hurried to seal all the windows and doors.

scent on the wind
two frantic does
gather their fawns