HIGH COUNTRY FOG

Beyond the fields my world has disappeared,
the guarding distant mountain, bone.
The stenciled lace of twisted trees that mark
the silenced river's winding course is lost,
a blurred grey smudge enveloped in
an opaque wall.
Close by the window weed stalks
rise stiffly from the ice-sliced snow
feather hung with frost.
My fence posts, in two meandering
dark rows could guide escape
if I could leave the warmth of home
and brave the lonely stretch
of fog-bound road.  But over there,
high in the top of his old tree
a great bald eagle huddles in the cold
and it is pretty plain to see
that he has not intent to loose
his tightly taloned hold.