Fog On The River

A slow twist, an invisible slide the hulls of small boats again escape, drop down into the morning fog, return like seagulls rising. The moored, slip in and out of the mist enigmatic as any legend then return, painted now, by the deeply diving sky. Sinking or flying, the small craft slip through our vision, like river leaking ghosts. They roll upon an obscure air, ship cloudy waves, last seen in a shipwrecked teacup.