The fog envelopes me.
I draw vivid pictures
on its white surface.
I don't know how I do it,
But I know why.
It's a craving:
To fill emptiness,
To disallow silence.
The fog's texture is
Subtle, but existent.
Should I not sketch my story
On that white surface,
But rather give it my attention
then I might see that texture,
and then see it clearly,
and - eventually - feel it
as I glide my hand
though space...
Blind and at ease.
foggy morning:
a figure approaches...
nope, just a shrub!
the mountain fog
cannot keep the secrets
of the bare tree.
the rocky tip
of grass-coiffed outcrop
is all I see,
but the sound of a crow's "CAW!"
comes through loud & clear.
A thick cloud nestled into the
valley down below,
I wonder if the forager
in that streambed knows
that it's sunny above.
the clouds retreat,
revealing hilltop ruins:
a ghost in stone.
hill slope trees
like staggering figures:
soon swallowed in fog.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 