Driving through the rain
The clouds obscure the trees
Mountains rise to unknown heights
We fly through highs and lows
Of the Highway, the Low way,
On ‘rainy’ days like this,
where the weather isn’t sure
whether it is raining,
or simply damp,
We have a special kind of cold humidity
Its called ‘clouds.’
And they’re so low,
(Or we’re so high?)
That they puff up your hair
While making your sweatshirt damp.
The forest is a strange creature
resting, coiled, in the summer cold.
With the mist, making wispy patterns
through the mountains, between the trees
appears to hide...
The dark, damp, dreamy mystery
of the forest
pricks the imagination.
What hides in there? Who?
What lakes, what rivers
What furred forest creatures?
What beasts of lore?
What dancing fey flee from sight?
What romantic characters can be found?
Through the trees, you seem to see...
A snake winds through the forest
beside the highway, through the mist.
It moves swiftly here,
Green and lithe,
This snake can swallow people.
If let loose in the mist,
Sometimes children stray.
More often, though,
Their mothers watch them closely
Careful of their tendency to wander
The mist has a scent:
pine needles mostly,
Then fresh rain
but not the rain smell of new grass,
The rain smell of wet forest.
Dirt turned. Churned. Aired.
The mist has a sound.
Trees whispering, slightly dripping.
Squirrels and birds chirping.
Creeks, (Pronounced Kriks) rushing, swollen
Past quiet deer.
The mist has a feeling.
Now that’s a big one.
This land is ancient and infinitely young.
I think it’s the mist.
It washes away the death of winter,
And the mindless bursting spring
it makes way for the peace summer brings.
The land is new
in Idaho Mist