Fog

The fog moves out; the fog moves in. The mystery of the day begins.

The dew reflects the morning light. The haze conceals what's left, what's right.

A hawk's atop a wooden post, like some enchanted, feathered ghost.

His mind is sharp, his wits are keen. Will he reveal all that he's seen?

What does he know this misty morn?  Has summer passed?  Is autumn born?

What will tomorow morning bring?  Will there be time to shout and sing?

The fog will slowly burn away.  What it reveals, I cannot say.

I only know that nothing lasts,when fog-filled mornings wander past.