Angel Hair

Fog silvers blue boughs
blankets cedars drooping now
low branches sheltering birds
their unusual silence

drifting wraiths mute cattle lumbering
toward fresh hay unrolled by the truck
soundlessly augering a line of feed

highway barely humming in the distance
its dry spinning song but moist breath
exhaled by cars heading toward the power plant
where coal slips hoppers wet and shining

bracken glistens in rising light
skeleton fingers metacarpals phalanges
uncoupling to touch the chicken house

miniature cataracts cascading drop after drop
from splintered eaves to water weedy grass
hens awakening to rooster’s crow

soon August heat will evaporate this miasma
coffee in hand we watch it lift off to the west
no blanket weather this, as afternoon will steam
fog become a memory soft as angel hair.