by Jane Hirshfield
One moment, the mountain is clear
in strong morning sunlight. The next, vanished in a fog.
I return to Tu Fu, afraid to look up again
from my reading and find in the window moonlight–
but when I do, the fog is still there,
and only the ancient poet’s hair has turned gray
while a single wild goose passed him, silently climbing.
You can find this poem in After.