Driving in Fog

The radio insists this is zero
visibility, but I see cats
and raccoons dashing across the road,
eyes luminous in the high beam.
Hitting 60, fender clearing the gray,
I think people don't die— they just rise
with fog and nestle in the uppermost
branches of these Illinois oaks.
In the morning they're mist,
sprinkled on the alfalfa. 

I recall a red-faced boy
who whistled back my love songs;
the dandelions picked by Mother’s
brown hands and crooked finger;
her memory of cotton fields, howling
coyotes at dusk; the irrigation canal
where she swam, unafraid of snakes
underwater.   And I've hiked through
Zacatenco, where tree bark
blends with the thought of her skin,
my father's voice, rich, in a baritone
chorus with goat-hide drums.
In the cornfield, clouds rolling low
over ground, as I think of
who wore boots and sombrero, sequins
on her black velvet dress.

Tonight I'll park near a crossing
and go look for trains,
balance barefoot on the rails—
then jump when a headlight dazzles me
and the whistle blows louder
than this song.