It was foggy enough this morning
that the whole world was silent
about itself, about its colors
and shapes, not telling us about trees,
their great size, their green masses,
their intricately detailed leaves.
Yes, we suspected the hills
still lay there, round and cragged
with irregular rocks, that they probably
still had cattle on them solemnly munching,
ponderously walking, bemused, philosophical.
Only the birds announced themselves,
speaking bodilessly from the whiteness
where the world was last night. They are
saying, "We are here, we are here!"