Fog in the valley
A ghost ship, its gray bulwark
sails above the eucalyptus tops,
a prow of wispy vapors,
paints monochrome grayscale in its wake,
erases the light blue morning sky,
pauses
while the rest of the fleet scuttles alongside,
the ghost crew staring me into silence.
The ships are now the sea
then, slowly, sink, into the green ether
of treebranch, crowflight, rooftop
and the blue bursts like air bubbles
back to the surface.
by Paul Totah