My campaign to name our new place Foggygates continues. We're in a bend in the river and almost every morning, no matter what time of year, the fog comes up from the river and rolls across the fields and barns. In the Summer it's pleasant, but at this time of year it gets old fast...
The silent winter fog steals in,
River’s breath, the color of gin;
Stealing through the iron branches;
Icy water drip drip drip.
The barn was there,
And now it’s gone;
Smothered, swallowed, by the gauze.
Silvery, silken puffs just linger;
with ice-cold fingers.
Now up above
The sun cracks through,
Shooting golden, molten hues
Cotton ghosts dissolve and flee,
Barn and tree and I are free
To see the last cold fingers die.
the first hawks fly.