In the distance, gray mist thickens, velvet
against the foothills of the Sierra.
Where the mountains arch,
plush snow-capes lay in elegant disarray.
Here, all day stillness had spread itself gently
on the budding branches.
Now, wind blows a fickle breath.
In the distance, the mist gathers, knotted clumps,
dark patches quilted with gray frays.
Like a tattered cloak, this blows open
then falls again into tangled folds.
If these gusts continue, new spring blossoms
from the cherry tree may snow.
Earth exhales, its breath a musty wash.
In the distance, the Sierra flings its matted
wool from recalcitrant shoulders.
A slip of silken blue – so blue,
so piercingly blue, floats easily beneath.
Here, finches settle into the western trees.
Then – all at once –
spill joyous arias into the low clouds.
© Copyright 2007 Susan M. Botich