A Forest of Fog - Buckeye Creek Press, D. M. Brantley's "Down to the River"

In A Forest Of Fog

Alone,
Driving home,
Near the Grant Memorial Forest as night approached,
I took a short-cut, a county maintained road,
And passed the "5 Miles to Rock Eagle Mound" sign,
Where I was engulfed suddenly
By a forest of fog, so dense
That I could not see
Its matted trees or forest floor.

In the midst of this muted, ashen darkness,
I sensed the sacred stillness that had descended
Upon this seldom traveled, black-top road.

A village of faceless Indians,
In tableau,
Danced around a stone-piled effigy,
Some in suspended, slow-speed motion;
Others, frozen; still,
Except for the movement of the orbiting cloud
That formed the gray, damp bounds of this unknown world;

Disturbed only by a forest of fog
With a ghostly apparition
Of an ashen car with a faceless driver,
In the eyes of a vigilant brave
Bedecked for a ghost dance ritual.

Exchanging cataract stares
Of near recognition,
We nodded to each other
In a reaching silence,
Feeling the inner fire and warmth
Of ancestral kinship
Of blood upon blood.

Seeking not to disturb, further,
The clouded forest through which
I entered and expected to pass,
I lifted the accelerator
And inched along quietly,
Searching for the way
Without the benefit of broken yellow lines
Or reflector lights implanted in the road,

As a scout in unknown territory,
Looking for safe passage
Through guarded Indian burial grounds;

Aware that this mysterious presence
Was all around me,
My forward movement was guided
By a confident hope
That this uncertain trek,
Would somehow,
Give way to the warm and glowing blaze
Of the living room fireplace at home,

Where I could consider,
And maybe never forget
That unknown time and place
I was privileged to pass.