Perfect Sunday

It's foggy today
Shrouds of mist
Hovering over houses
A college town
So strangely still
Noises and voices muffled

Reading Isaiah, realizing
That God is really God
He is the only Rock
I know not any other
Praying in the quiet

Walks in the enchanted fog
Gnomes are watching
From great tree stumps
Weepuls riding quail
Twisted trees are still

Wet branches tickle the air
Wet leaves and mud
At the edge of the hill
Pullman is gone
The universe is whizzing by
Shrouded in the fog

I never thought the universe would be so loud