Cloak of Fog

by Tim Staley

The sun picks the scab of night
but clouds foam over the light.

The clouds fling their fingers
against the mountain, glide up
and over or sidle for miles
against the canyon wall.

A mountain lion tiptoes
down the canyon to the spring,
both of us are spooked
by the boom of nuclear bombers
running maneuvers all morning
under the cloak of fog.