Inklings

We kept telling ourselves that it surely was true. We kept murmuring a chant of self solace. Spoke of it, trying to hide a obvious doubt. A dream, a hope, is a good and necessary thing to hold. A pilgrim is not much without it. Peculiar things, these hopes, that cannot be contained in anything tangible. Iridescent butterflies caught in glass jars hiding in our pockets. We draw this shared sigh of relief, a singsong of hindsight, as we are forced out into burning midday scorch. There was another day in store, there was cause for these inklings of hope.  

 

Hillside outside of San Francisco shrouded in fog. 

Hillside outside of San Francisco shrouded in fog.