South of Home

Tonight, in a field south of home,

a fog had settled, low on the ground and 
stretching itself out below the evening sky,

reposed like that little cat the poet penned,

blankly watching us on silent haunches,

refusing, though, to rise or move on,

unbothered by our looking, driving by,

and marveling at its beauty, an unobscured

transparency just lying there, cat-like,

soft and white and pure, and a gentle

purring we hear somewhere in our memories,

soothing us, somewhere in a field south of home.