A fog rises from the earth.
A cool, misty blanket.
As gray as a soul.
Archangels wade in the river shallows, like herons.
They seem to be looking for something,
But I don't ask them about it.
I am a small wooden boat, and time is my anchor.
I have pennies in a bucket, lots of them.
From the shore, the sound of the music of Bach
Being played on a cello.
Pablo Casals, in his eighties, was asked why he still practiced.
"I think I am making progress," he said.
I raise the anchor and shove off into the fog.
I think I am making progress, too.
-previously in Medusa’s Kitchen