What's That Noise?

Murky shapes lurking in the shadows.

It's not a good day
to see much,
not a good day
to see anything
at all

other than 
a faceful of fog
and murky shapes
lurking in the shadows
near and far.

Foggy morning on San Francisco Bay.

So, best to step outside
and stick your hands 
in your pockets,
tip your head back
and relax your jaw, 
take a deep breath
and listen

for your pulse
in your ears,
faint and soft
in quiet cadence
with your heart,

the throaty groan
of a fog horn
far off to the West
mystically guiding
captains of container ships
who can't see
what might impede
their journey
into the bay

the perpetual whirl
of driverless Waymos
rounding the corner below,
menacing and creepy
the way their endless fleet
haunts the neighborhood streets

the steady beep
of a delivery truck
stopped blocks away
dropping off 
baguettes and bagels
at the grocery store

the distant white noise 
of commuters descending 
upon the city,
plowing through the fog
as carefully as they'd plow
through unexpected snow.

The noises ebb and flow,
revealed in concentric circles
of varying volume,
all dependent upon
how hard and long
you listen,
how eager 
you are to hear.