There is fog in the quarry this morning.
There is little to see. Looming hills of slate.
An odd tree or power line silhouetted in the gray
as you walk in the mysterious air.
You can smell the moisture. Feel it
on your skin. Stay still long enough
and it will leave droplets on your arms.
But you have no plans to stay.
This fog. This place with its mysterious light
is a passing through place.
You seek something more.
A place with fires in the night
where you can see stars, the milky way,
a place of clarity and light,
where the horizons are clear and sharp
and there is no wondering
which turn in the path leads you where,
where you can see the rocks before they fall
and breathe in the honeysuckle.
The fog will pass. You know this.
Sooner or later the sun always wins.
But you are impatient.
There is not time enough left to wait.
So you walk. Through the quarry,
through the fog. Past the fallen things
and the things waiting to fall.
Past the invisible sounds of animals in the night
almost certain you know the way.
About this poem
The picture was taken in the quarry across from my house.