Evening

Fog descends upon the upper spruce limbs.

Still enough daylight leaks through the window

to distinguish cursive images being composed

on lined paper. Just past shooting time,

when deer begin to move, their eyesight

enabling them to negotiate footfall.

When owls awaken. The foggy sky

diffuses the retreating light

until a headlamp is switched on

revealing what’s left of a December day

and the trail this poem follows.