The building tops are shrouded
By a thick persistent fog.
The sun, despite his name day,
Must be sleeping like a log.
I watch the darkness lifting
Very slowly, from my perch
Twenty-seven stories higher
Than the steeple of a church.
A gull swoops by; some taxicabs
Glide slowly down the street.
The flags on poles sway side to side,
Perhaps to Sousa's beat.
It's early morning in this city
Nestled by the bay.
My view is of the buildings, though,
Varieties of gray.
The clouds hang low, so thick that you
Could cut them with a knife.
I hope the sun breaks through before
The city comes to life.
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