Low mist creeps slowly along the fences,
seeps into the ditches and eases out
along the lower fields.

Each blade, each leaf, each stem
seems drenched with the damp darkness;
they disappear until only what is nearest
can be seen.

A muted moon fades through
the upper veil,
swelling slightly in the night’s soft covering.

The limestone gravel on the road up the ridge
emerges from the dimness of the valley,
rises through the corn-covered hills,
oddly gray in its showing
between the greens.

Even in the mists of night,
even in the slightest of light,
there is witness
that there is more to this life
than what appears to be
instantly clear.

We are touched by Light
and shaped by shadows.

H. Arnett
8/16/13