Poem

Foggy Morning

morning fog hangs low
hugging the river that slowly winds through the valley
and sending ghost-like fingers up the tiny hollows
where creeks and streams flow in

bird calls float on still air
and the sharp screeches of a hawk echo
in the treetops fox squirrels chatter and
protest my intrusion into their domain

a twig snaps and leaves rustle as
something scurries along the bank
a gentle breeze carries the aroma of fresh coffee
and I thank God for planting me here