Fog

Fog moves in quietly
through the trees.

It wraps the trunks and branches
until the whole place feels
half erased.

Even the sky looks uncertain,
not quite night,
not quite morning.

The river is still there
but only in pieces,
a pale line shifting through the mist.

Somewhere above me
branches rub together in the wind.

They sound like voices
trying to say something
and then thinking better of it.

I keep walking.

The path is familiar
but tonight it seems different,
as if it might lead somewhere else
without telling me.

From the shore
a gull cries once
and the sound disappears
almost immediately.

Everything here is unfinished.

The water.
The sky.
The light.

It feels less like a place
and more like a moment
between places.

And standing in it
I realize something strange:

I am no longer waiting
for the fog to lift.

This, too,
is a kind of landscape.

Unclear,
unfinished,
but still a place
to stand.