Becoming Mist

a great irish wolfhound

jogged along the trail

its mistress tethered

in a stylish track suit

people climbed stairs

to nowhere

while off to the side

lay the true path

in a bed of colourful leaves

neath an arching footbridge

mossy stones were strewn

randomly

small rapids led

to a glorious waterfall

wind from above

gathered moisture

became mist

swept down on those below

wetting cheeks

like tears

~e