I saw them, a tall man
and two small girls.
They stood on the street,
and fog swirled between us.
Cold wind ruffled their hair.
Puddles widened beneath
their boots as they waited,
quietly with naked hands.
Were they really there?
My eyes burned. I strained
to see them, blinked and
blinked again, polished my
glasses with a small blue rag.
The man seemed to raise
his hand, though it might
have been a shimmer of leaves.
The girls faded in the mist.
It was so quiet, with clouds hung
over the hills and frogs waiting
until nightfall to begin their song.
Steve Klepetar is holed up in the Berkshires, where he can see the mountains from his writing desk as spring makes its way north.
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