After the rain,  
vapor rose from the valley,
from where I stood I saw
a panorama of mountain
peaks robed in low
clouds and bands of dusk's
signalling shadows. Mist
rose from the basin
and then parted  
into shapeless white
arrays that continued
to move, continued
to patrol the hollows,
the range, at an unhurried
pace and a timeless question
came to me:

Which came first
the mountain or the mist?

Suddenly the scene slowly
disappeared, began to erase
itself, from the furthest
peak to the trees below
my feet. Suddenly
I realized what was
happening:

an immense bundle of white film
heading to where I was.

I closed my eyes
as it swallowed me.
Who knows how much time had passed
when I opened my eyes to a blank sheet.
I'd never been in the belly of a cloud:
there was nothing to see.
But the taste of cold-minty air;
the muffled sounds of insects crying
reminded me that I was still on earth,
stationed in a location; free
to imagine anything.
So I pictured
one of those Chinese
paintings, thick calligraphy:
the story of a girl
who was clouded
on ground and grounded
in clouds; the brush strokes
depicted valleys shredding
at her feet, dissolving
into vaporous streaks
and then forming mountains
behind mountains
behind mountains,
behind the place where I
was wedged in between,
a place where nothing
was the same as Infinity.