CLOUD SONG, NOVEMBER

Just over the hills,
a scattering of wings
and white fog –
all the time in the world
to piece yourself together –
gray on white,
white on gray –
there is no pattern, clearly,
how brokenly the mist,
it pulls from branches,
its slow walk up the mountain
going, for the most part,
entirely unnoticed.
In this land of hushed giants,
in my still standing,
I remember,
I, too, once was part of sky.


Words and image by Sarah Rehfeldt. Please do not copy without my permission.

Poem published in Weber - The Contemporary West, vol. 32, no. 1 (Fall 2015).

Reprinted in The Write Place at the Write Time (Fall/Winter issue, 2015).

Photographed in the southwest slopes of Tiger Mountain, Washington.