Yesterday a blue heron flew low
over the road, calm,
leisurely sweeping across the four-lane highway,
as if it were a forest, the cars a river, and the day not ending.
This morning, fog gathered on the road,
tiny pale yellow lights flashed,
pinpoints of light on a journey,
trees shrouded, not even a tree line
points at order.
Fog as far as the eye can see begins to lift.
Tree shadows line the fields.
Birds sleep while I wait
for the sun to burn the fog away with fiery pink and gold.
Only a line of poplars flames yellow
and promises sun.
Image: Tim Barton, Webshots.