Turning back toward home
on my after-breakfast walk
I face the steep hill of eucalyptus
that stands over our neighborhood
and am struck by the beauty
of what can hardly be seen
for today after heavy rain
the highest levels are obscured
like the truth of the Tao Te Ching
by the low-lying duvet of cloud
the farthest trees barely visible
looking remote as if ranged
on some twelfth-century Chinese scroll
Tell me! What is it in our
bicameral brain that makes
obfuscation of mere fact
so much more beautiful?