In the south field
Tulê fog obscures
Scores of infinite
Futures to yield
Doubt --out there
Beyond the creek
Where it bends west
And I seek some
Best sense of the
Year ahead-- even
An hour is immense.
I feel future floating
In mist -- it consists
Of features unformed,
Until the sun nears
And land is warmed,
Time moves and
Tomorrow appears.
