Photo by Nicholas Kampouris on Unsplash

Fog. Sitting on top

of a brave, brown mountain off Highway One-oh-One,
clouding its eyes
obscuring everything the mountain can see.

The fog sits on top of her like a ghost
and I could tell that underneath
that thick veil
the mountain is rubbing her eyes.

She cannot believe – or maybe she does – the fog is there;

Oh! What to do, lone, lone, pretty mountain?

Her piedmont churns; her bosom sucks in the fog — it seems.
Her heart aches,
as I pass her by
I know
within some hours
this fog will lift.