the mist rolls across the mountaintop, creeping up the sides and somersaulting across the peak, drifting in our window, tiptoeing down the hall and
swinging over the sill at the other end.
it's a parade,
olympian and gentle,
vaulting,
catching in my hair
like cottonwood clinging to the curtains
and lining the sidewalks.
hovering
drifting
