An hour ago, the fog held above the creek,
above the bottom ground pasture,
above the road.
The sun shone a bright red circle
through the smoky bank,
a fiery glow just above the trees
on the hill to the east.
Now, not even the least hint of sun
shows through in the morning sky,
nothing other than a faint lightening
above the falling mantle.
The horses barely show,
dark shapes grazing beside the scrub oak
less than a stone’s throw away.
Beyond them, beyond the drive,
cars pass by in the haze,
colors faded by the fog.
Beyond that, there is nothing
but the shifting gray that hides Randolph Road,
the bluffs beyond the creek
and the farms and fields that lie beyond the bluffs.
We sit on the patio, sipping steaming coffee
and savoring both scent and feel of this cool morning.
Past noon, August can burn as hot as June and July.
But the evenings usually bring a gentle forming of cooler air,
a cleansing of sorts.
And the mornings—ah, the mornings—
they bring this.