So hard to see,
The fog so dense,
No way to keep on driving.
At the rest area,
People are just voices in grey smoke.
The coarse calls from many crows
Cry out from somewhere in the mist.
I go to them like a blind man
In an unfamiliar place.
I walk among them in the grass,
Some hopping when I come too close.
They have no fear of me,
And yet they all seem leery
Of the fog.
They are so many...
It seems an omen,
But it's meaning flies away.
And I am grounded with the crows.
Bruce Mundhenke is a pedestrian in a dark world.