Fog in the valley


A ghost ship, its gray bulwark

sails above eucalyptus tops,

a prow of wispy vapors,

paints monochrome grayscale in its wake,

erases the light blue morning sky,


while the rest of the fleet scuttles alongside,

the ghost crew staring me into silence.


The ships are now the sea,

then, slowly, they sink into the green ether

of treebranch, crowflight, rooftop

and the blue bursts like air bubbles

back to the surface.

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