A rolling mist dips in and out of the fast currents, painted
rivers. Lobster buoys, familiar rocky outcrops come and go,
as does the flock of cormorants, drying their wings.
When the mist lifts, they are gone. A ghost ship slips
past, a double masted schooner, no doubt “The Flying Dutchman”.
Nearby islands come and go. Pine treetops rise above the mist,
grow straight out of the cold Atlantic waters. An osprey
has built her gargantuan nest atop the tallest fir; her host of chicks,
ready to fledge, barely fit, compete violently for her offerings
with piercing bird cries. Then silence. As the remnants
of Debby approach, roving squalls bring oceanic waterfalls.
The pier makes a mournful sound – a woman in mourning
sighing between sobs. Wispy dancing mist now a dense glaucoma of fog.
No one speaks of brain mist – it’s always brain fog, deeper, blinding.
About the author:
Deborah McAlister is a native New Yorker, cat lover and still grieving the loss of her sister twelve years ago.
Part of our Summer 2025 Issue. New stories, poems, and essays now through August 31, 2025.
Thanks for reading and please share!
Forty women creators will be featured in “We Could Almost Touch It,” our next anthology. This collection is a response to the state of women’s rights since the 2016 election, expressed through art, essays, and poetry.
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