Harbor Fog
Small boats are speaking
they creak and roll words in the gentle wash.
Land and water are uncertain yet,
Feet cold and rooted nowhere specific
you watch an inviable sky.
There are gulls;
for once they are silent
you hear only their wings
scooping air
as they navigate the fog.
When the mist lifts
the familiar is newly painted,
not with new paint
but with fresh appreciation.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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