Out on the edge of the hills
where I have been many times before
a little fog moves in
I smoke a cigarette on my deck
the morning sun blindingly low
the winter hasn't started
it is here but it seems to be waiting
as if there is a colder wind
a deeper voice than this soft sobbing
and though I can't think of what it could be
there is always such a feeling
of the necessity to stay still
to let everything deepen
even if chilled in my bones.