THE FOG COMES


The wind rushing by

Moisture in the air

From the ocean it comes

Over the hillside

Through the Gate

Into the bay settling

Slowly creeping across the water

A days journey

On Mt. Tamalpias its fingers

Reach deep into the valleys

Endlessly approaching

Anticipating the canyons

It caresses the skin

Softening to the touch

But it strengthens the sun

Some will burn and others melt

Shapeless in it's form

Listen to the waves unseen

Along the coast it has been lingering

Waiting for its chance

Now with the afternoon

It comes

Coolness

Water suspended


Michael V Hechtman