SJ Rozan

Yes, it is. The sunlight is sharp, the cold wind is sharp, the air is sharp, and sharp waves this morning rolled in and broke into glittering spray at the seawall. Steam rose from my tea, visible in the bright air. The old man who fishes at the curved walkway sat on his bait bucket all bundled in a down jacket. He’ll be out there until late in November, I think, then he’ll vanish until mid-March. Joggers wore leggings and windbreakers. One of the smaller dogs had on a plaid coat. The trees are dropping yellow and brown leaves onto the stone path and into the blue water. Across the river the only maple in sight of my bench has turned blazing red. In all this sharpness, an odd note this morning: one low patch of fog, graying the ferry terminal and its clock tower. Upriver, downriver, inland, all was clear, but that one spot was smudged as surely as if I were looking through a handprint on a windowpane. Eventually it drifted apart and edges, corners, and hard colors sprang back into focus.