Winter's Exhalation
For the past week the warming temperatures and melting snow have resulted in a string of beautifully foggy mornings. Their eerie nature drew me to Foster Cemetery, one of the lonely, lovely spots hidden around town.
I found myself high on the hill above the Kinnickinnic River, sitting with my back turned to the old settler’s grave stones. I listened to geese flying through the gray soup. Every now and then a pair would emerge from the fog of winter’s final breath, only to disappear again a moment later, headed downstream.
I found myself high on the hill above the Kinnickinnic River, sitting with my back turned to the old settler’s grave stones. I listened to geese flying through the gray soup. Every now and then a pair would emerge from the fog of winter’s final breath, only to disappear again a moment later, headed downstream.
