Hand of Fog
By Kaylee White
The hand of fog snakes its way over the mountain crest.
It summits and dives downwards
to hug the valleys and peaks,
Then rests.
Worming it’s way into every crevice,
Through the glades, low over the frozen streams,
Extending its reach sideways.
First filling the deep gaps,
Then slowly, slowly creeping up the tallest ridge,
Two majestic hills encased in morning mist,
Trapped.
Then comes the blinding light of sunshine,
Rolling out from its cloud cover,
It coaxes the frost to drip and the fog to recoil.
Gently, gently, the hand retreats,
First lifting it’s fingers out of the valleys and palm off the peaks.
Out of the glades and the frozen streams,
Until it lies only in the basin between.
A moment more, and then it resigns,
As the sun glares stronger,
It disappears over the tree line.
No Good Quarantine
By Makayla Marinace
I am not one to lie (much)
But this really, really stinks
Being in the house so long
Is giving my neck some kinks
I know these things are trivial now
In a terrible time like this
But to all those who feel the same
Here’s to another thing, we won’t miss
Risk Assessment
By Faith Garrett
the animal
– despite its lack of food,
its broken leg,
its need to mate –
sprints full-speed
into a ravine
it knows it won’t
survive down there
(if it survives the fall),
but the mossy rocks
look quite nice,
don’t you think?
Blue & Gold 