The fog comes on little cat feet

When we lived in Monterey, I grew to love the fog. It roiled in off the bay, cool and mysterious, and I was sorry to leave it behind when we moved to Bulgaria. We don't get a lot of fog in Wyoming (we seldom get hoarfrost, either, but more often than fog), and the combination makes it seem almost possible that at any moment a detective in a deerstalker could come out from behind one of the trees, wanting to question me about some strange goings-on.