Murk and Murder

It's December, and
the fog is stalking
out of the half-dead
grass like a silent
army of white
crows. They
shudder their feathers and the
fog laps up the sides of oak trunks.
They spread their wings and
it settles into the hollows
between logs and sodden
piles of soft,
rotting leaves.
The fog nests down
on my chest like a roosting
bird, fluffing itself
and pecking quietly at
everything
I've buried.