The country fog made driving a bus dangerous,
So they cancelled school and the sky was clear by ten.
Some days we escape the day and flee, not often
Alone, but it’s fine not to be too generous.
She had the easel up by noon and a canvas,
Gessoed and ready, a blank window on a field
Of milk thistle, nimblewill, foxtail and bentgrass.
She wondered, will all this come to me, will it yield?
She left herself, wandered the field as she painted,
Circling back every hour or so to find
If her seeing was approximate or tainted,
If the scene was precisely limned or loosely lined.
As she packed, she thought, it’s worthy of a fog day.
The photo let the easel and the painting stay.
