Morning Fog in Bosler Wyoming

By Dan Hayward

Morning fog… Mist… Ghosts….
Bosler Wyoming…. A bump in the road at its height, and now just a crack across highway 287.
The morning fog shrouds the half-abandoned blink-of-an-eye, hiding secrets of the past…..
And of the present….
The yellow house;
Boarded windows, leans a bit, but is stronger than it’s neighbor. Still strong timber holds up the story-and-a-half. No one has lived here since I’ve been in the region… for 16 years.
Today… The house is just a memory. It burned down just half a year ago. To the ground. Just the old cement foundation reminds us of the ghostly structure that watched the traffic passing by just 50 feet away… day and night, for decades. Watched cars, lots of pick-ups, semies, and motor cycles. For decades. Ghosts of the past on the highway…. Now, just passing by a missing ghost… from the past… in Bosler…
Row of tiny, connected shacks, face the sun’s glow beyond the fog…. And groan their ghostly greeting to the morning. Doors are missing, allowing the fog to visit the dank, mysterious darkness inside…. Wondering what stories these four tiny shacks have to tell. Stories of the poorest of poor scratching out their lives in these 120 square feet called home? Places of business for a few of Wyoming’s notorious women who shook the dust from lonely mens’ memories and realities? Did Butch Cassidy ever visit? Shake off his dust in one of these shacks?
The fog moves imperceptibly through the ghosts inside the shacks, leaving its prints for transient posterity in small…. actually minute, drops on the faded walls, filthy floors and missing windows. These ghosts will keep their secrets, even from the fog.
Two cars from the ‘30’s and the ‘40’s, parked…. tilted…. side by side as if at a drive-in movie theater. They face the blacktop from their resting spot a ways off 287. The still, silent mono-chrome fog fills their interiors and coats the windows, like steam from a forbidden, passionate escapade.
Driver door is open, and a ghost steps out, wandering into the field of fog beyond the steel and glass caskets that are slowly sinking into the land. Sun peeks through the veil of mist over Bosler… In Bosler…. Around Bosler…. The veil of mist, and of ghosts, that seems to define Bosler…
At least to the speeding passer-by, anyway.

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Categories: Issue 4, Poetry | 1 Comment

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One thought on “Morning Fog in Bosler Wyoming

  1. Cork

    I believe that Frank Bosler was a Harvard graduate. From his ranch, I have a shadow box of a leather and metal horse blinder. You moved very nicely into the past.

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