Morning Dissolving

Fog breaks at the edges like melting glass, revealing the spine of the hill, one knuckle of stone at a time.

A magpie calls from the dissolving white— its voice arrives before its shape, a ghost announcing itself.

The air thins. Light pours through in colors that have no names, only the names we borrowed from other mornings.

Everything holds its breath before letting go, the ground still dark and patient, waiting to be seen again.