Fog on a Pasture


In the first glimpses of morning
Overlooking the front pasture
Ghostly fog lifts from tall grass
Gentle, wispy tendrils reaching up
Ancient spirits in the field
They gather just at eye level
Forming a long layer against
An invisible ceiling—Waiting,
The Gulf breeze soon to come
Thrusting them in violent swirls
Their mouths agape, faces twist
As if to mournfully howl
They burn in the orange and red
Dawn sky, scorching their near
Shapeless forms, but their wails
Fall silent on mortal realm.

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This Poems Story

I have a small farm, about halfway between Galveston and Houston. Quite often the mornings are foggy, especially over the fields. Sometimes I imagine the fog to be lost spirits wandering a landscape unfamiliar to me. From a time before the suburbs overtook the bayous. I wonder what they would say to me.