From town to town the old cow lows,
Foghorns mooing across the miles;
Unseen cattle calling their herd.
Thick fog wreaths shoreline and sea
Turning mundane matters into mystical,
Hiding dull drabness with veils of white
The mist burns off by mid afternoon
And the sun chases clouds away.
Now that the day is come clear,
Where do the fog-cows graze?