Fog made of cold air on a warm river. My smoke and it seem the same.
(I wrote a few on Facebook in the past week or so, but am taking a break from FB, so here they are instead.)
Here are the others:
the white haired ladies
still talking about doctors
convene in my hall
squawking geese fly close
telling ducks to hurry
soon they will all leave
moon swathed in cotton
reflected in the river
a snapping turtle
novel november
but papers, exams to grade
alas, a haiku
winter has arrived.
the days are gray, branches bare
time to up your meds