The poetry of mist is a magician in vaporous white cape. Who by sleight-of-hand hides an entire hillside, multiple treetops and telephone poles up capacious sleeves replacing known world with mystery. Mist-ery. Perhaps the words are related. I will look it up later. For now I wonder what will materialize when this faint cloth is whisked away. The hills we know and love, or perhaps a row of white rabbits in top hats.


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