Fog on the 180 (Kings Canyon)


By James K. Zimmerman


to begin with
there is nothing there
to begin with

a filmy emptiness
of mist, the absence
of presence

a thought un-
tainted by words

a word yet to carry
the cloak of meaning

then they begin to appear
one by one, sometimes
two by three, dark
sentinels on nightwatch

hooded figures pendant
in soft cool air
spectral arms open wide
to the highway

as if seen unfocused
through cataracted eyes

now, in the moment
of their birth, breathlessly
they speak their names:

douglas fir, balsam
pine, manzanita
mountain laurel

then now again too shy
to take a graceful bow
in the high-beam
glare of center stage
they recede back into
mesmerizing mist

to become shuttered
memories of a time
we will be unsure
ever did occur at all

but as we descend still
farther, lingering
clouds release us
from their bony fingers

and the unexpected
valley is a Joseph’s coat

seams of muddy ochre
stitched in bright green
rows of orange, grape
persimmon, pomelo


and silhouettes
of transient shades
backlit from above



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