by Ilari Pass

Dawn, the sun sliding
above the mountains.  The fog floats
on top of the lake, morning dew.
Everything emerges, fresh
and fragrant.  Insects burr, the campfire
is almost out; hearing its sizzle and whistle
means a man can leave.  A bird
flies, heading to the lake,
disappearing in the fog.  Yes,
I think, I see.

Category: Poetry