If Not On Little Cat Feet
Fog materializes along the northern
shore, a slow drum-roll
muted on broken limestone.
Its masque half-way up the trees
without warning
—disappears,
in the way stirred particles
suddenly dissolve in a solution.
As the day arcs to its
customary exit behind pines,
fog returns,
folds discrete layers into
our proscenium,
bends the sun’s sharp radiation
through a matrix of mist. We stare directly
at the circle of light. It does not hurt.
When is this all done? After dark
the Whip-Poor-Will
calls its own name.
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