Where is the entry point into this poem? The trail head is closed for the foreseeable which seems not that far, now, our human future shrouded in fog.
Fog remains at home, here, on this point where land meets sea, where a crescent of beach curves. Just north, Tillamook lighthouse still battens to its rock, abandoned columbarium;
just south, Haystack Rock looms picturesque, mute. I recall our last visit, four months pregnant with you. We rented a damp cabin at Cannon Beach, dim and stinking of old smoke.
That night, the roar of the surf called us out. We walked into the heavy fog, lights of heaven concealed, even the lights of the town, rocks, docks, Sitka spruce all shrouded.
Delicate as deer, we went, step by step, onto the wet sand, its shining all we could see except each other. The tide was low but we knew it would turn, that morning would come. That fog would burn.