The road unspools slowly, revealing
cows in fog, moored to the hillside’s anchorage—
with gentle sway, the world’s calm

like I’ve never seen before.
If I enter this tranquility the spell is broken:
sylvan ridges darken, and

cold vapors turn foul—their swirling arms
riddled with gooseflesh.
In mock anger I can churn the loose

gravel and squeal, letting spray
pebbles and chipped rock which does not belong.
I can inch forward, spider-limbed and lithe

on squelching grass, squashed,
which bears my slogging tread.
Great greaves of sky are crowded out

by the sullen charm of Autumn’s morning.
I watch from the road, my face white and clammy—
The cows float on placid eddies, tails swishing.