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poem: one moment


morning mist rises
reflecting in the ripples
shadow of the hills

There is a bike trail that I used to take to work in California, which leads through a park that follows a stream past wild ponds, thick with cattails and reeds. On spring and autumn mornings, the valley is often filled with heavy ground fog while veiled mists rise from the ponds. As the invisible sun warms and thins the fog, there comes a moment when the silhouettes of the surrounding hills begin to show themselves in the surface of the ponds. I enjoyed just such a long, slow moment standing alone in the morning silence, having left early for work and missing the radio news, on September 11, 2001.

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