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Don Thompson

Fog Therapy

Two or three days of rain

have calmed us, and the wind

has let it soak in for once,


rather than blowing the earth dry;

has slouched off to brood

in the canyons east of here.


Now it’s cold and damp, the air

holding so still a spider’s 

convoluted web wouldn’t tremble.


Fog rises, suffusing us

with a glow thicker than darkness,

putting blackbirds back to sleep.


We slow down in weather like this

and look inward, not really

wanting to see much.

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