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 seem
To skim the water reflecting
	From the surface of the polished sea.

No breeze dispels the mist,
	Air redolent with the scent
Of brine and slightly spoiled crab,
	The air cool, always chilly
On this Pacific coast, 
A flock of gulls stands sullenly
Silent on rocks at water’s edge,
	Staring out to sea.

Low tide, Yachats, the stillness 
	Seems a gift, however temporary.
I feel subterranean forces gathering
	Their strength, the dark rumbling
Of an unquiet world, soon the storm
	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 a little 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.