The snow is very white against the indistinct, dark ground.
Every sense is muffled; muted, every sound.
Opaque irridescence hovers in the air.
All familiar landmarks seem to be "not there."
February fog, February fog.
Snow humps are for sliding,
Problems for deciding.
Vistas are abiding behind February fog.
Shed of half my winter wraps, dog on lead, I go.
Where I am from step to step, I hardly know,
But King does. Sniffing, nosing, pulling hard,
He finds the gate. We leave the yard.
February fog, February fog.
Stepping, slipping, looking, thinking,
Straining, sniffing, stopping, blinking
Trust is walking blind in February fog.
Snow mounds as I pass them breathe into the air
Clouds of vapor, thickly blocking vision from the seer.
Comes one leaping heart-throb, comes one silent Word:
"Reach for what is near at hand when prayers seem uneard."
February fog, February fog.
Time for slowly striding.
Pathways still are hiding.
Tomorrow is betiding behind February