The Weight of Fog

The morning comes not with light but with a thick gray breathing, settling low over the rooftops, erasing the sharp edges of the world we thought we knew yesterday.

The oaks become apparitions, standing in a pale sea where sound is swallowed whole, and footsteps on the damp pavement echo into nowhere.

We move through the heavy air, ghosts in our own city, waiting for the sun to remember us, to burn away this quiet suspension and ground us once again.