Untitled
Fog stalks the treeline across the field,
sniffs at the branches, wraps a long tongue
around the trunks, tastes the sap. It will not
eat us for hours; it will hunt in the distance
while we watch and listen to the bellows
of consumed cattle, the cries of birds
who blundered into its shoulder and disappeared.
We lock the door and wait for it to pad
its way along the red-carpet trail laid down
for approaching winter. We are cold already,
stiffening as the sun drops and we listen
to the muted sounds in the other room:
the even cadence of a Latin prayer, the soft drag
of cotton sheets pulled across a breathless cheek.
Someone hisses. Someone draws in breath
like the raising of a dog’s hackles—a warning
growl that draws our eyes away from the window
to an oak door frame and a brass handle
about to turn. We’ve seen all we need to see:
the fog has swallowed the treeline.
It’s chewing its way across the barren field.