to a port town blessed with angels

it's mid morning. the skies hang low over the near by mountain peaks. snow falls in the foothills as the town moves slowly to a somber beat while the sun peaks through the last of winter morning clouds. winds blowing off shore and frostbitten. the streets breathing salt and sawdust through their aging cracks and broken crosswalks. it's something of a ghostly morning. lost souls wander down the damp sidewalks like historical figures of the past, clothed in thrift store flannel and dirty jeans. the buildings worn and weary are all to familiar with these drawn out mornings. this town has been named the port of angeles. "where the mountains greet the sea" and i must say. today there is no better way to describe this majestic morning. and so i glide on, eyes wide and heart open. soul lost with a mind on the past and present. i have found my home. and the sign at the end of town reads. port angeles.