The trees stand starkly
Against a white wall of mist;
Only a hen moves.

It lies all around;
I try to move into it
But never get there.

Face against windows;
Eyes closed, dreaming of rabbits?
The small sleeping dog.

White against dark brown:
They stick out from the tree trunk,
Little shelf mushrooms.

The air is moist, fragrant;
There are no leaves on the trees--
End of November.

Mist on the mountain;
In the distance all is blurred;
Up close, all is clear.

The tall half dead tree--
At its bottom, shelf mushrooms;
At the top, brown leaves.

Old tree leans over,
Forms an arc above the road.
What force bent it so?