I walked Graysontown Road with my son
and the river fog was strung into the sycamores.
It made us silent and hidden near the cries
of wood ducks hunkered against driftwood.
Coltsfoot was still blooming. One flower stalk
had stretched through a crack in the pavement.
Its yellow flower fit the gray fog and a moth
tooling down into it for nectar.
We listened. A tractor cranked
on an invisible hill, and echoed into the river.
There were spring peepers everywhere in a marsh
calling the fog and all the waters their heaven.
© by Clyde Kessler.
Used with the author’s permission.