Fog was deployed when erasure
was needed, a soft, cold veiled
undoing of yesterday, of morning
Though the shroud of clouds did nothing
to stifle the sounds of the unmaking-
dogs barking, tearing at the thrashing throats
of hauled out seals. The break and hiss
of water battering rock, the evil seagull laughter
or the deep belch of the tug and dredge
dragging the bay bottom, churning murk
turning sea floor as if it was tired earth
in need of a new crop.
We climbed beach bluffs
to escape the chill press
of flood-tide fog, alive
and full of unseen sound
that wrote the words of its new
vision onto the landscape-
fog horn and whale song
cackle and static of VHF SOS.
We huddled under damp wool blankets
and waited for the white wall to lift
to see what new, barren-plain was revealed.