And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
– Wallace Stevens (“The Snow Man”)
Always the backdrop
of deep pipe songs
awakening at dawn—
Roadrunners in rockpiles
like coyotes at night
finding one another.
Or the late November chill
of sequestered bulls
pacing the barbed wire,
their primal trumpeting
echoes up and down canyon
searching for the company
of work, sweet work.
The quiet moments
in between are cold
before and after
a good hard rain
when fog rolls in,
up canyon,
spilling over ridges
to wall the world away
in opaque gray
swallowing sound
to leave you lost,
disconnected, alone
with only the thought
of becoming nothing.
drycrikjournal 
Tule fog… I know it well.
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An old (2011) photo, we’re not quite there yet, but the Tule fog in the Valley for days on end can become depressing.
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In 1983-84 I lived in Fresno and that particular year the fog smelled like garlic all day long, every day. Some farmer nearby must have planted garlic that year. It permeated the fog just like the odor of the dairies in Tulare rides along on the fog in a thick, choking layer. Now every time I drive through Shafter or Gilroy and I smell garlic, it reminds me of that year I lived in Fresno…
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Great poem, John. Reminds me of what I feel when sailing among the islands of the Sound when visibility is zero . . .
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Not a boat man, I can only imagine…
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Riding in fog is a completely different experience. Both horses and riders are at high alert. It’s a bit like riding at night. But listening is THE sense, that’s for sure. I could feel that feeling in your poem.
janet
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Good. The last two lines of Wallace Stevens’ poem have stuck with me over the years, but fit the fog almost as well as snow.
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