Fog

by

Sunnyone

The fog is drifting through the trees like a cold-hearted thief,
in the night_
It’s icy, wet fingers leave behind droplets on everything
it touches_
Nothing is left undisturbed_
It violates every life form in it’s path_
The air is eerily still, but the fog moves on, of it’s own accord,
picking up and devouring smoke from a hundred woodburners
along it’s path_

The trees drift in and out of human vision in the twilight,
and the fog caresses their naked branches silently,
as if taking on the visual entity of Mother Nature’s love-making_
The moon becomes a silver grey-yellow blob of light,
diffused through the foggy blanket_
And the blanket is never constant,
ripping here and there, to allow a peek through to the black velvet sky,
strewn with distant twinkling objects in the heavens_

Twilight has turned to nightlight into dawn’s light,
while the fog gathers it’s forces to assault the morning travelers_
It thrives on human chaos, confusion, and disorientation_
"Where are the lines in the road?"
"Where is the dreaded ditch?"
"Where are the street signs, the familiar markings on which mankind so relies?"
"Where?"
Could it be the fog is Mother Nature’s messenger,
sent to remind us of our insignificant reality?
Does it delight in knowing we are powerless to affect it?

But_on our side this morning is our warm ally_the sun,
accompanied by the wind_
As day hours accumulate, the sun enables the pre-Winter breezes
to do her bidding_
And like the ghosts of the night,
the fog disappears,
taking it’s chilled blanket of gloom to other places_
far from here_

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from: Beverly Hills, CA, US

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