not every day but some days
some days I can wait in the face
of a channel or a bay that faces
east and see the lazy suit of
fog give up the pall its been
holding all night or at least
in the darker dark (if the wind
doesn't bully) or when the water
mumbles with stones at her lips and is
after trees the first chance
she gets to reflect (take one
swallow though who'd know
sunk this far down) into
the coming day when haze and
the island in the bay and,
occasionally, a stray from far
away from any place it began
feather I almost step on almost
toe into the stones in the dark
on mornings I set out alone
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