Fog on the Juan de Fuca

Bloated tankers, lying in the starboard fog—
cranes, mountains of coal.
The coastal mountains are lost in a morning that never broke.

Behind us, the ferry’s berth is disappearing,
and all the other barges parting
to their journeys beyond the shroud.

The loaded Hanjin Geneva crossing our bow,
the last ship, the last image of cities.
We roll on its wake while lone gulls,
in their ritual—guiding our passage—
fly silent within this hidden day,
this fog that has fallen upon the strait.