Ecola
      for our daughter, on the other coast
  
  
 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.
  
  
 Leslie Schultz