mist muse bike

The mist gave the sky a huge appetite. It swooped down to feast on the already crippled waterfront. It sucked the concrete clean off piers. Brunch on rusted vessels -- lunch on shedded brick.

It picked its teeth with the splinters of rotted timbers.

They said the sun would not come today. He was ill or maybe afraid. I searched for a sign of his strength.

Up and down I roamed. The bounce of the cobblestone hurt my wrists. Surfaces muted. Sounds collapsed. Air heavy and wet - threatening to suffocate me -- or lure me into the soup.

Then he came.

But hope was silenced. Gallant, but not enough. The thick smother swallowed him whole and he slid away, without even a sigh, to the invisible horizon. Maybe to fight tomorrow?