Fog Horns

by David Mason


The loneliest days,   
damp and indistinct,   
sea and land a haze.   
And purple fog horns   
blossomed over tides—   
bruises being born   
in silence, so slow,   
so out there, around,   
above and below.   
In such hurts of sound   
the known world became   
neither flat nor round.   
The steaming tea pot   
was all we fathomed   
of   is and   is not .   
The hours were hallways   
with doors at the ends   
opened into days   
fading into night   
and the scattering   
particles of light.   
Nothing was done then.   
Nothing was ever   
done. Then it was done.

11 thoughts on “Beyond

  1. Beautifully observed, Eddie. Perfection of light and silhouettes against those amazing clouds, like cotton wool dancing across the sky.
    Absolutely gorgeous

  2. Oh…my….god…
    If there is such a thing as heaven, this is it for me. If I were the last human alive, but I could live “with” this…I would still be ecstatically joyous….and profoundly peaceful. I might be alone but I would NEVER be lonely. How can we have wars, eddie, when this exists?
    I always wondered what the “riverspirit” meant, but then when you said you lived on a houseboat, I understood. I LOVE the water; it is the one thing I miss in New Mexico. I grew up on the water and have always had canoes but sold them while traveling. I hope to soon get a kayak and run it down miles of the Rio Grande, through the rapids and gently across the glassy calms. It is not soon enough for me.

  3. Your work is quite remarkable, I have yet to visit the northwest but have some work scheduled there after the first of the year. Can you share more info on the site of this picture? It is beautiful. Thanks for the view… Peace — jb

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