What to say of this morning’s fog?
When we reached high trailhead,
all was obscured, the hikers phantoms.
A dog barked we couldn’t see.
Driving there, we’d scanned the range
from a distance. One cloud lay
on top of it, like a big fat Merino.
We could get lost in its fleece.
Friends were invisible ten feet away.
It was like being old in a white room.
Or nodding off. Counting down
under anesthesia for the surgeon.
It looked like the last thing you’d see
before dying. But soon enough, day
broke through. We tightened our laces
and went where the sun wanted.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His latest book is Wooden Nutmegs (Encircle Publications).
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