Everything fades and disperses to the eye as the fog falls into the bay. The lighthouse becomes a mysterious thought, somewhere out there among the spruce tips, sinking into milkiness. Houses are lost and forgotten on the shore, the granite walks invisible, but the soft mumble of the ocean makes its presence known.
What is still clear before one’s eyes are the numerous water growths, substancial little cities in themselves, the foxtale and needlegrass landing, the dropseed and the furred hawkweed on the promenade, and last season’s rose-hips showing crystal clear streets near the edge of the milk world.
We walk on into the opacity which opens up the room of flowering whiteness (we think Georgia O’Keeffe might see this one too) and our ears, our ears can still be clear though all this denseness, for the foghorn calls softly to those in danger, the bell buoys tink in the soft waves, and a bird calls in its whited flight.