each morning, fog feathering
all the bent grass blades, thistle
heads, underbrush, preening
twigs and evergreen limbs,
white winged from far hill
to low gully, as if overnight

we'd sunk into reef, bleached
and imperfect, ready to flake
off with each increased degree
of heat, the path I walk
with deer tracks and last night’s
coyote howl soon littered

with each tree’s fallen plumes,
so fragile the country’s beauty,
its thin film of candid reckoning,
that hope is a struggle, thinking
each night’s inky fog can break
toward gentle light, this rime