Hatched

It is 56 in the valley
with a fog thick, milky
and so smooth you
could cut it with a butter knife

Every blade of grass
wears a mantel of moisture
to wet a bird's beak

Piper and I climb
toward the sun
just making its debut
stretching its rays
reaching for the fog
ready to burn it off
to lift the valley into light

With warmth on my face
and wet on my feet
I am thinking.

I realize with a start
that for once
it's not
the agonizing haze of
analysis
doubt
of warped concentration on
my Situation.

I am ready
to see the world
to think of my students
to pull two girls

one a misfit
one a depressive
- both brilliant

out of themselves and
into a book club
into the warmth
and companionship
that kindred spirits can supply.
I am ready to save them
- or at least give it a try.

Huh.
Irony strikes.
They have saved me
Their obvious need
has compelled me...
has burned off my fog.

I have some reciprocating to do.