light
coming into fog above shadowed plane of ridge
sound of
birds calling from branches across from it
past in
terms of it since present and future, other
running
your finger over, “pricked“ as if by thorns
as it
travels from the mirror's glassy depth before
which
sense never repeats, water surface in a glass
grey
whiteness of fog against top of shadowed ridge
white
lines of waves breaking into channel below it
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