Mist of Morning

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 Mist of Morning


Exhalations of water-smoke rise from the woods.

Not a whisper of wind as time seems to stop.

Breath of fog envelops newborn green,

Shrouds the deep woods in ghostly gray.

Slight movements there catch the eye, but can’t identify.

Mists make the familiar mysterious.

At least for a time, nothing is as it once was.

But then, is it ever?

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