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