After 10pm and we sit with the remnants of supper on the terrace, plates cleared, glasses of strawberries and cream scraped clean. I hear a deep note, repeated twice, with long intervals between, then repeated twice again. Vince strains to hear. We spend minutes listening to the night waiting for him to catch it. A fog horn.
After the dishes are cleared I stand on the stone table and see the fog moving in, low and white over the lights of Brooklyn, rising from the southeast, coming from the sea. High above the night blinks with planes at cruising altitude, the stars in place, and below, here, the strawberries, which continue to ripen in their small pots, watered at dusk.
Inside we switch on the air conditioning again, water runs in the sink and the cat begs for chicken bones.
Knowing that the fog is there, and coming in, that we are being warned, is a small comfort, a silent nod, telling me that it is not all up to us, that there is still weather, that we need protecting from larger things, that every nuance of our overcommitted lives is shaded by the larger moods of the planet.