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Mary'sCreekNightFog : Watercolor of clayboard panel18X24" It sounds like this, My feet in wet grass It feels like an instrument of falling, An unraveling Of fog whirling Through the moon trees The scent of something repulsive Draws me into her, An ecstatic fall From the cliff Into the canyon lake Tropical salt The glitter of snail slime Trails across the morning grass My footsteps Drawing nearer frightened Dry leaves cracked, A blue heron sailed from the lake Of flooded gray trees   I remember the day They erected The concrete barrier Between home and The wild trees   We weren’t made to dissipate Into the light We were made into the gray fog So quiet for all those years Seeing the dim moonlight Even where the canopy Closes above Blue light
Mary'sCreekNightFog
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