Here we are, deep in
America, between basin
and deranged, calling the fog
what it is: a log's covers,
a quilt for the mountain's
side forest, a place for
little quests where no
bear will rest until
the end of October.
Was that specific enough
for the beginning of the feet
and their hills?
The mass of rock cannot
become timber
for a few more eons
and it is all happy
to weight.
The clouds
the impatient clouds
will drop mass
to hope that another hop
from here will lead
to something clear,
even if that clear
is paid for
with the end
of shroud.
Roman Ryan 