The Morning Lasted All Day

Like Sinatra in a Younger Day

The fog rolls in.

Always the fog rolls in.

The hill up from the ferry landing is quiet.

Mostly.

Until the church bell rings.

Crackling through the morning.

The ground is wet. Always wet. From dew. And rain. And snow that never quite sticks and never quite freezes.

Soon the coffee shops will open. Serving strong espresso.

Double shots of everything.

But not yet.

Not quite yet.

For now it's quiet.

For now, there's just possibility.

Just a sense that something is about to happen.

Something very important.