Foggy Enough

It was foggy enough this morning

that the whole world was silent

about itself, about its colors

and shapes, not telling us about trees,

their great size, their green masses,

their intricately detailed leaves.

Yes, we suspected the hills

still lay there, round and cragged

with irregular rocks, that they probably

still had cattle on them solemnly munching,

ponderously walking, bemused, philosophical.

Only the birds announced themselves,

speaking bodilessly from the whiteness

where the world was last night. They are

saying, "We are here, we are here!"

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