My son has built a tent-cabin in the front room and invited the dog.
He has constructed an imaginary machine,
with an invisible lever, for catching the fog.
Fallen clouds drifting through the valley
along the river bottom, up and over the lines
and folds and contours of the hills, coulees
and benches, combed by cottonwoods and pines,
breaking softly against the windows
like thought or breath, then passing on,
flowing, opaque body of air, and we are both
caught up in this elemental conversation
of house and fog. The fog got in the house,
he says. I am catching it with this.