A Fine Mist

A fine mist rises in the wood,

left by a passing rain,

shifting shapes and slanting light

to mask the warbler’s flight,

and veil the fawn’s fern-filled place—

a space hidden, 

apart. 

The trees stand solemn,

trunks obscured

where slashes mark their soon demise

by saw and boot and crane. 

The stumps will remain,

to harbor fungal fruit and insect bore,

reminders of what is no more: 

That all things pass—

some by fate, some by force,

some by Time’s gaunt march.

Patricia Thrushart

Clarington, PA

left by a passing rain,
shifting shapes and slanting light
to mask the warbler’s flight,
and veil the fawn’s fern-filled place;
a space hidden, 
apart. 

The trees stand solemn,
trunks obscured
where slashes mark their demise
by saw, boot and crane. 
The stumps remain,
to harbor fungal fruit and insect bore,
reminders of what is no more: 
that all things pass—
some by fate, some by force 
and some by Time’s gaunt March.