Clemens Starck

Firs on the hillside:
mist drifts through them like smoke.
White mist, black trees …
Headlights sweep the wet pavement.
Waiting at home
my son – he’s ten, he wants to know
what we’re here for.
Black firs. White mist.
Loose tools rattle in the back of the truck.
In twenty miles I ought to be able
to figure out something.