fog forms in the meadow
at first light
rising from the mop-
topped goldenrod
as if it were the conjoined breaths
of a shadowy golden horde
massed against the bald
white fact of the barn
its credible rooflines
asphalt-tiled
in the same dark green as
the ridges that flank the field
the barn’s ridgeline broken
by a slatted cupola
to draw air through
whether for hay or horses
or once a hundred years ago
a circus elephant
who spent the summer tethered
on the threshing floor
no one can remember why
only that it was here and lonely
like the young lady
a generation later
who came to the hollow to hide
an unplanned pregnancy
one winter shuttered up
in the summer house
with a church organ
they heard her playing Bach
for years after she and the child
died together at birth
every Appalachian hollow
has its share of ghosts
but the sun tops the ridge
and the fog shapes vanish
catching in spiderwebs
glistening on the breast of a wren
