Susan Fuchtman

Fog is like the valley pulling a blanket over itself

and hitting the snooze alarm—

“Not yet, sun.”

This place must have had a hard day yesterday, all

that grass to grow and leaves exchanging carbon dioxide

for oxygen—

all those birds to support on branches

(but the orioles sway on slender reeds,

showing off their red and black just a bit)

all those bugs toiling away in the dark brown dirt

all those fox chasing all those rabbits

all those deer gliding silently through

all those owls whoo-whooing from deep and high in the glade

all those squirrels playing in the trees

all those turtles moving slowly up the bank—

rest easy, soft hills

the day will start soon enough.