Fog

 /   /  By Emma Birches
Stone Soup Magazine
September/October 2011

By Robin Sandell

Every evening a tumbling, frothy white waterfall cascades
over the mountains.
Its thick, swirly, blanket settles among the trees, and oozes
into the valley.
It keeps coming; soft, white and misty.
It reaches its tendrils around each tree.
You can see it creeping, crawling like it is sneaking up
on someone.

As the sun sets, yellow rays shine through its top layer
of mist.
So bright are the sun’s last rays it drowns the mountain’s green
Till all you can see is the very outline.
The sky darkens.
Slowly, the froth pools in the valley and rests its head.
One by one the stars come out, shining crisp
in the cold clear night.

The fingers of mist wake early and start retreating back
over the mountains to the sea.
Slowly the world wakes up.
The sun shines its first blossoming rays towards the sky.
The soft blanket slips back over the hills, hoping not to be seen.

Fog Robin Sandell

Robin Sandell, 11
Portola Valley, California

About the Author

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