The morning air is tricky, with a haze
that to my coastal eyes appears as mist,
befogging distance for my sweeping gaze,
but air this low cannot be moisture-kissed.
It must be made from something I don’t know,
some flotsam gathered by the windy night,
but currents in the air appear to glow,
and motes of mystery bestreak the light.

And light this wonderful has strange effect:
it tricks the distances and rubs the tones.
Perspective moves the mountains to connect
and cast cascades of color from the stones,
and build a bowl about me everywhere,
with canyons shimmering in magic air.