It started rolling over me
Around one in the afternoon.
I didn’t notice it at first,
Since I was absorbed in reading
Old wonder tales from Xebico,
Having set aside a poem
I’d begun in the morning light.
I only looked up when I noticed
The day had gotten almost dark.
It wasn’t yet two by my watch,
But a mist was filling the woods,
Making ghosts of pines shedding snow
On the roof of my idling car.
(I must have switched on the engine
Unconsciously, once it got dark.)
I’ve never found fog depressing,
But then again, I’ve never found
Only strange to experience,
Sipped slowly, in a pleasant way,
Like the oily, peaty savor
Of leaf litter on a damp day,
The faint, earthy warmth of decay.
Almost as soon as I looked up,
The mist retreated a bit, blue
Shreds at lower elevations,
Like scraps of ribbon woven through.
I watched, then went back to reading.
Weather is hesitant like that.
It’s only ominous to us.
When I glanced up, the fog was back.