The Fog of an Idea
The waning moon has an electric tint to it, frozen in the morning sky.
“The child of morning, rosy-fingered dawn” is creeping over the mountain. Homer would approve.
And all through the winter, Earth slumbers, dreaming.
I drive my little red car through this dream like a mouse scuttling across a midnight kitchen.
Frost gathers down in the hollows, a ray lights up the pines that guard the cornfield, casting them as bronze statues of forgotten war heroes.
Still she sleeps, turning over, ah! Is it spring? No, she settles in, and it’s cold again.
I’m not sure of the point of all of this. The idea is still on the stove, cooking, getting ready to print in a newspaper.
I’m sure there’s one somewhere. Maybe.
I’m off to scuttle up the road.
– Josh