Fog

A warm fall day gives way to evening’s cool,
And Fog slips out to hover o’er the pond.
Slowly pulling himself up ‘round the edge,
He spreads his wispy fingers ‘round the fronds.

Rising just enough to view dark terrain,
He will carefully check the path to take.
Choosing which are easiest to ambush,
Fog grows now with each quiet step he makes.

He creeps still, sliding out among the fields,
Engulfing all as he proceeds to grow.
Higher, wider, he feels all the power,
Supposing there’s no place he cannot go.

Spreading ever faster and so careless,
He chokes all warmth and light from morning sun.
Sun begins to climb, now somewhat higher…
Fog sees that he is beaten, and he runs.

Releasing his hold o’er all once captured,
He’ll roll quickly now, to his watery home.
Fog will rant to sun that he was cheated…
It won’t be long ‘til he begins to roam.