At the overlook, we could see four states
If the fog had not rested its elephantine
Rump upon the conifers. We can barely
See each other, much less the road
Switchbacking down the side of something
Extraordinary, that we’d hoped to
Experience, in full sun, even though
We rose in and out of sudden
Precipitation. The entrails of an owl
Would predict a dirty soup
Like purgatory where hopes are grey
Bandages flapping loose over the red wound.
A shaman burns the diary. This journey
Must be undertaken. The valleys spread tables
For the pure in spirit. Green taste of mint
And perseverance. In the hoods of scoffers
We stand and wait for grace
To lift us.
Featured image: Foggy Sunrise by Mike Slobogean. CC license.
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