Last night

the fog rolled in.

But it was gone this

morning. I'd never seen

so much fog, or fog

quite that gray, or that lay

quite so low as that fog

last night. Lay so low,

quivering, like water in

a kettle that's about to boil,

like the steaming makings

in a big black pot that's

about to become homemade soap,

like clabbered milk in a huge

white crock that's bouncing

in the back of a horse-drawn wagon

pulled over a rutted country road

to Grandma's house.

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