~ROGER PFINGSTON~

MOUNTAIN FOG

---

 

All morning the sun has been
a cold moon teasing the heart
with fragments of farms and cattle.

In a downward spiral we probe the fog
with our lights, a cautious pair
looking for signs, the highway
a coil of black gut, here and there
the gleaming red of feathers and fur.
No sound but the metronomic pulse
of wipers.
                At sea level, distance
redefines itself as we breathe back
our lives, not in hurried gulps
but slowly, deeply, survivors rolling
to a stop under neon that blinks and crackles
its simple menu: FOOD & DRINK.
 
 

© by Roger Pfingston