Flying in Fog

It is early morning, 
and it is cold, 
eight below. 

The air is still 
and your footsteps 
are almost silent. 

Almost, 
for there is a slight crunching
underneath, 
and as you round the path
past the icy pond, 

duck fly away in fog, 
blind, unsure
where they are going, 

except
away. 

About this poem

I have spent much of the past few years flying in fog. It used to scare me. Today, I fly much more confidently through it. 

The picture was taken this morning, just down the road at the edge of West Pawlet, VT. 

Tom