The Long Gray

It's a thin line extending centimeters
beyond all the branches iced over
way back when, in remembrance
of the frozen-solid November world
present six winters ago.
New shades of Tule fog settles
in halfway cross country from
both sides, from the east, west.
Now from the San Joaquin, hovered
low and close enough, becoming
ground cover to move through.
You can feel it, you can hear it
through the sound of a train
that alone in the early morning can
fill the air with sorrow.
Perspective is to the first bare tree,
naked branches a skeletal exotic, even
in the essence of dormant structure.
Time now for tracing of the
unfamiliar, this will be uncharted
territory once again, as a one time
to be certain, vaguely hitting some
memory as the nerve of memory proves
always some bearing in the here and now
coming ever from someplace known
and out of nowhere,