A Revealing Fog
There are no crashing Hebridean waves here,
just flat acres of cornfields and country roads,
only farmed earth and red barns.
This mist drowned morning
the sky has offered its own sea,
it carries a saline memory
of spray and spume.
Here in my suburban garden
North, South, East and West
are one.
Blooms are now sea anemones
the hedgerow a reef,
a familiar tree line is a gray cliff face.
For a long moment
I gaze from a Scottish shore,
but then a kitchen radio is turned on,
a truck blasts its air-horn, a child shouts.
A blotting gust of wind scatters
all before it. Ohio quickly repaints itself.
Somewhere in a cornfield
a rabbit sniffs a passing sky-wave,
it may have shrugged,
hard to tell, but I assume it did.
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