Inside the Oyster Shell

Yesterday morning I had occasion to travel to Norfolk,

which meant I had to cross the Berkley Bridge over the Elizabeth River.

It was a rainy, misty morning so the sky was dark gray and overcast.

The traffic on the bridge was heavy, so everything moved slowly.

It was a situation rife with annoyance.

But not for me.

I love crossing the bridge on such days.

The sky is deep gray, the river is too.

The steely shipbuilders' cranes tower over the water,

dwarfing the tall cement buildings on the opposite shore.

A light fog closes in, encircles the buildings

and rubs away the line of the horizon.

Finally, my white carriage rolls across the grate of the drawbridge.

In that moment the sky draws nearer,
and I am enfolded in layers of mist,

 the pearl inside the oyster shell.
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