Evening falls chill on this autumn day,
The air is somehow alive. Stacks of cloud
Swell like blue fungus above the trees.
In the valley bottom, a shadowy presence forms
Amongst the skeletons of summer thistles.
Fog lies low, like mustering specters
Of a fallen army rising from their graves.
It slowly advances in waves across the field,
Like ripples when a stone's thrown in a lake.
Smooth as a silken train, fog rolls across the ground.
Boundary uncertain, misty arms stretch a path.
Leap like white horses across a hummock.
Trees on the hill float on the billowing sea.
Fog softens them to ethereal visions
Before condensing to obscure the view.