river stones

by Linda M. Crate

white fog engulfs the land,
no tittering birdsong nests
itself in my ears this morning —
I, too, am swallowed by it

as I walk into the golden field;

the babbling brook laps white
water into it’s rivulets, the
white stones that mark it are
the funerals of deer, the grey

ones are the tombs of the living.