It tip toes
across the meadow
impairing my vision.
Views of jagged
peaks just beyond
coats everything
outside, while
leaving the inside
feeling dark and dank.
It selfishly hides the sun
allowing it to warm
only it’s back.
The trees are still,
no rustling critters,
no leaves dancing,
no branches rubbing
up against one another.
The only sound
is the occasional
drop of moisture
hitting the ground
and a faint ringing
in my ears.

Then nothing.

I stroll
like an aging
Italian man.
My hands clasped
behind my back.
I walk upon
wet dirt and ash,
stepping over broken limbs.
The morning’s
second coming of cold
bites at my skin.
In the distance
comes the sound of birds.

Then again,

I listen
to the silence.
I wait
for the fog
to lift.