Fog is the day’s shroud. It teases greens from
the trees’ leaves and mutes the siren scream of reds.
Fog soothes the itching edges and asks us all
to disappear until we tire of being awake.
Fog is weather’s seductive amusement
that settles over valleys like feathered caprices.
Fog likes to lick streets and drip on windshields
and mirrors, to frizz the dog’s hair and dampen wool.
Fog does not speak. It hums in a silver register
only heard by stones.
Fog is akin to coma. Someday we will all succumb
to its vanishing.
from Snow, Shadows, a Stranger by Laury A. Egan (FootHills Publishing 2009)