We wake to a mist
That clouds the river road,
Hovers over a field
Of soft-spun spiders’ nests.
Blackbirds beat and skirt
The trees, streak over hay bales
Spread out in dry fields like matchboxes
Burning the mist into a gold blaze.
A ghost moon trails us
Into the mountains,
Through yellow aspens.
White faces of cows
Flash through forest walls.
And everywhere
The trees bend down
Whispering
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