Fog Bound

 

In through the land gap from the Pacific sails

the fog, a mile high, fifty miles long, and

wide—undulant, annealing where it is

torn, it rolls easyoveracross the bay

and up the hill, to pack, and fill.  All that was

far away is wiped off like a penciled

scene, but what was close moves closer

still: grain in the fence

post grows into a grove; a giant towhee bolts

into a cavern in the hedge, and great red roses

riot on the bough.  Next time, come with us out

into the fog: hoarse horns croak from a

vanished shore.  Even the children see that with

each step a new world starts and ends, as the

fog mends.

 

        Sometimes it happens one of us is

lost, and calls out in a panic: Where are you?

Are you there?  If no one answers, then his fear

goes too, and he has found not

only where he is, but who.