Morning fog

Smelling of salt, bearing dew of the wave in its tenuous strands, the cloud comes gliding, rolling in at ground level, pressing its white Featureless face against windows, peering in at our strangely solid existence. We, who stare at clouds, who ponder their airy convolutions in midheaven, should not resent the opaque visitation or be too proud, in the Age of Space, to ente rtain a cloud.