A single Baird's
seems a bit shy
      among all the Western Sandpipers.

Fog hugs the still bay -
   spruce tops poke above
   capturing the sun's first rays.

The harbor seal
      yawns sleepily,
            floating in still water.

Grey, scudding skies -
   white bark arises,
      tinted with quaking, green leaves.

What needs saying
      about blue-grey skies
            above pine trees?

a paperclip,
      dusty, on the pavement -
somewhere, an idea runs free.

taking the lane -
   a hundred bike bells
chime under blue skies