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The morning was darker than most, the air was thick with moist fog.  My twenty-minute drive to work began.  As I drove along the winding road through the swamp area by my house, the headlights piercing the heavy mist, my mind’s eye began to work, taking me back to a time in my imagination.

I sat on a weathered bench on the shore of the vast lake. Not a soul had wakened, it was only me and the seagulls. The water was still, at least more still than usual, except for the occasional ripple caused by a diving gull. The fog was heavy and gathered on my jacket. 

As I sat alone in silence I could see the ghosts rise from the water, the lonely souls who made their living on the unforgiving water.  They loved the sea, and the sea loved them enough to keep them in its midst forever. 

The fog plays mysterious tricks on my mind, and as the ghosts rose so did they descend back into the blackness of the water.  Off in the distance shines the pinpoint of warning from the lighthouse, and the desolate cry of the foghorn.

Lighthouse In Fog ~ A bottle cap magnet

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