Piercing the encompassing darkness of night,
rugged, rocky mountains rise from valley floor.
Base shrouded in sheathe of grey, hovering mist
creeping upwards with morning's light rebellion.
Wrapping sinuously around bejeweled boughs,
dew soaked droplets quiver on downy bracken
while illusive tendrils drift, caressing pewter light
as river bottoms shrug off blanketing haze.
Treetops and summit evades sun's burning beams.
Opaque fog drapes the forlorn alpine meadows
that peek through the shifting bastion of illusions,
aimlessly smothering mountain at dawn light.
Directions lost as gossamer whispers weave
muffled responses to silence soothed echoes
mystifying the drifting shadows of sound.
Spiraling peaks masquerade in misty contours
slowly arousing to sunrise's ancient call.

Cloudwalker  May 14, 2000

I was challenged to write about the fog and the mountains one day. While sitting on the ferry on Mother's Day, very early in the morning I watched the sun and fog creep along the water and mountains.  This was the result of the request and the Creator's gift of morning.