The first fog of fall brings a chill with the scent of rain,
of ichor, the blood of the gods, a mist
that looks like a driving
rain in the street lamps now switched
on from clouded shadows.
It catches me unaware, this feeling,
as I open the door and the dog
and cat run out
like children you can’t call back again.
I follow them down the front steps and into a field
behind the house, beyond the barn,
and into a place of torn
feelings. The gray mist flows
over the high valley, obscuring
the mountains as the dog bounds
out ahead and the cat picks
her way through the dead grass.
Surrounded by the unexpected weather
where the storm crows call,
I kneel and crumble some earth to dust
into the cold breeze.
How long, I wonder, will I be in this place?