Low Tide, Yachats

Ocean lost to morning fog

            Except along the shore,

Whispering of swells

            Among rocky cliff and kelp,

A dozen pelicans cruise past

            So low their wingtips

Skim the polished surface

            Of the water.

No breeze dispels the mist,

            Air redolent with

Brine and spoiled crab,

            The air cool, always chilly

On this Pacific coast,

Gulls stand sullenly silent

On black rock ledges at water’s edge,

            Staring out to sea.

Low tide, Yachats, the stillness

            Seems a gift, however temporary. The storm

Forecast to arrive this afternoon, like

Subterranean forces gathering

Their strength, the dark rumbling

Of an unquiet world, soon the gale

And surging tide will send hurtling breakers

Smashing against the coast, shaking the very

Foundation of this house.

Morning lost to ocean fog,

            I pull my jacket tighter

And take a sip of now-cold tea

            And watch the sea, there is no demarcation

Of horizon, coastline becomes mist

            To the top of the skies, obscures

And disorients the world while we wait on the deck

            For the tempest.