the fog won't hide the guilty

I unhooked my chest chain from the chopper frame and kicked free of the iron grate. Cold fog hung low over the sidewalk, swallowing the curbs and muffling the morning traffic. Ground visibility was gone. I stepped onto the thick gnarled root of the street tree, digging the toes of my heavy boots into the deep furrows of the rough bark. Gripping a ridged wooden knot with both gloved hands, I hoisted myself up to a broad burl two feet above the dirt. The damp air hissed faintly against my skull, my fire flaring a pale, alert yellow through the grey mist. From this perch, the entire foggy avenue is locked in my sights.