Fog #1


There is nothing here
except the constant, looping clicks and caws
of birds, lost in trees erased by white.
My sight condensed
by each fresh, foggy breath,
a hanging depth
my head sinks through.
Nothing here
but mulching steps,
the soft snap of twigs long soaking,
the sticky sound
of car tire on wet road.

I am drenched
by a sudden gang-up of water,
a brief yawn of thunder far away.
There is nothing here
and I am all wet.

1980 John Goss