mist calling

There it was, now that it was quiet with no wind howling, there it was, as always, persistent, constant, it’s call, the horn out at sea wailing off the wall, warning, so easy to ignore in the daylight, like the sound of gulls or breath, now a mournful moaning  deep in the night, heart pounding slow, low, it’s call now beckons and small ships listen while they list in their moorings lining the Embarcadero. 

It’s one AM and a motorbike putters politely through puddles down a street nearby. Late, damp and cold.   I draw the strings to my hood and curl stiff, numb fingers deep into fleece pockets.

As the bike sputters into the distance and diminishes....it is quiet again, silent, except for the barely perceived soft hiss as the fog whispers by my numbing ears.  This is life without you. You are mist.

The horn wails, end of shift, I stay the course, but remain adrift.