In November
the fog seems determined
to draw a veil over the valley,
and steal dawn from the Sun,
to hide Autumn’s glorious display.
It meets in utter failure, of course.
When stealing beauty, that is what you get.

Each morning’s fog has an
aspect unique, exquisite, mysterious.
Sometimes it creeps like a cat stalking,
or swirls in, white and cold, sculpting
the trees into crystalline chandeliers.
Or, like an ingenue descending the stairs,
with white, opaque, petticoats of mist.