Fog slowly writhes about in its pre-
dawn miasma. Erasing trees and
houses, dark smothers light refracted
through the treacherous damp. Slowly out
of leafless tall bushes, chill-sharpened
tentacles seethe. Trees walk their bones in
and out of gloom. Haloed in dark webs,
branches claw through light’s shifting body.
They emerge and fade. Engorged with dark,
fog mutters a silent colorless
white glow. They are variants of each
other in this hushed present’s presence:
synonyms . . . light means dark means light . . . and
oxymorons . . . neither’s opposite.