Weather the weather

Drowning in fog, thick and heavy as sin, a precarious bubble are we; rushing, praying, pressing forward ever so forward so gingerly hoping, at any moment the tiny firefly through the muggy cotton, the little lamps of a big huge bug, bearing, threatening to squash us, doomed because we were not five feet up, to see, or five feet over, to miss, and so now five feet under, to lay blame in sterile paperwork, unable to capture the messy heart it describes.