_ I watch as a woman lifts her right hand to her nose.
At first, I think she thumbs her nose at the yachts,
but when I look closely, I see she breathes, deeply
slowly through one nostril at a time, drawing the fog
into her body until her left leg lifts from the ground
and floats like a sail behind her. When she drops
her hand, her leg falls down.  A pigeon flies up.

_ At the outdoor faucet, nearest to the beach
another woman stands barefoot, her trousers rolled.
She turns the faucet until the water runs strong,
then leans into the stream, splashes water
to her face, pulls back, allows the water
to flow away, soak the sand. She stands back,
bows quickly three times to the empty faucet.
She doesn’t turn away, doesn't scrub her feet.

_ A third woman at the edge of the bay keeps her back
to the fog but leans down to fan piled bird seed
into the air. A near-by clustered fist of pigeons
expands across the green, chasing the seed.

I go home.