Early Morning, San Francisco

The building tops are shrouded By a thick persistent fog. The sun, despite his name day, Must be sleeping like a log. I watch the darkness lifting Very slowly, from my perch Twenty-seven stories higher Than the steeple of a church. A gull swoops by; some taxicabs Glide slowly down the street. The flags on poles sway side to side, Perhaps to Sousa's beat. It's early morning in this city Nestled by the bay. My view is of the buildings, though, Varieties of gray. The clouds hang low, so thick that you Could cut them with a knife. I hope the sun breaks through before The city comes to life.