Where does the Middlebury fog begin,
    light and darkness end?
The forms of trees are smothered in subtle
    mystery as they
Struggle to be individuals among their peers.
Shapes are scarcely shapes, emerge like ghosts
    with nothing to say.
A small breeze, a little unsure of itself, tinkers
    in the leaves
Then pushes away to explore new places.

Look, the fog deepens and thickens, relishing
    its power.
The air condenses and forms into droplets,
Each a dwarfish splash, statements that will quickly
    collapse, never to be seen again.

In the distance, I count on the mountains
    to stand upright,
Abraham, Ellen and Camel's Hump living
    secure and unafraid.
I hear the 5:45 A.M. train making its way blindly,
Comfortable on its track, trusting the fog
    will not become a wall.
Blue jays call out to one another for reassurance.
Frogs continue to croak, oblivious to anything else.

My range is pulled back, limited by sight but my mind
Pierces time, imagines the horses grazing, Guernseys,
Their faces down into the grass and people pursuing
    their daily routines.

    Donald Everett Axinn
    From Walking Through the Night

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