Tag Archives: Tule fog




Stacked in the valley

and thick as milk gravy,

it spills over the ridge


in slow-rolling waves

eclipsing the daylight

to swallow you up


in cold cottony gray.

Easy to get lost in the fog

when you can’t see


your horse’s wet ears—

find something dry

to start a fire


and wait for it to lift—

or trust he knows

his blind way home.






There were no wild turkeys here

when we were boys—no Great Egrets either

mimicking Blue Herons

statuesque in the pasture

waiting for the earth to move

a varmint cleaning house after rain.


Scattered atop the ridges,

we haven’t seen the cows and calves

in weeks, the young bulls longer

through December rains.

They don’t need us now,

they don’t need hay.


Lifeline of the canyon, the creek

arrived on Christmas Eve

running muddy, coloring the river

with streaks of chocolate

under the new bridge

it took years to finish.


And when the Tule fog

leaps and claws up canyon

like a lion to wrap us in a gray

cocoon that shuts the world away,

there’s nothing to do but wait

until the sun burns it off.