The fog thinned but never lifted
On Christmas Eve Day.
And yet when dusk came,
We were gifted with a softly surreal vision:
A gray mist you could barely see
Hovering in narrow seams
Above the sod and sifting through the trees,
A subtle transformation of both site and season.

Absent reason, 
I might believe this small valley
In northeastern Kansas
Held ancient stories of pewter and peat,
Of small clans in the Highlands 
Who'd meet amidst oak and cedar, 
Who metered their lives by stars and stories
And sought no glory greater
Than finding their families well fed
And safely bedded beneath a pale moon 
While the breath of wolves curled and drifted
In hollow notes beyond the dark spine of the ridge.