by Thomas Davis
The old year hung behind a hill
that sang with birds and bears and animals
as numerous as water plummeting over black rock
to a canyon far below a granite cliff.
The new year, over the hill, was shrouded in fog,
whiteness obscuring dark shapes
that could almost be made out inside the hint of brightness
from a sun that could not be seen.
We walked into the mountains with our two dogs,
the old year on the hill behind us,
the new year over the hill in front of us,
and we listened to the singing of the old year hill
and wondered why we have to keep going on
into a fog that could hold miracles
or a continuation of rich songs now behind us.