The fog came in on little cat feet, just like in that poem that we all studied in middle school. It came in while I was looking the other way, collecting clam shells and watching seagulls bob and fish on the inside of the breakwater. Early fall yellows reflected.
Then, a fog horn bellowed at my back. It reverberated across the lagoon, stirring up the gulls with its forceful melancholy. Other ships in the straight answered in their own voices, and the first cottony wisps of mist floated overhead.
I crossed the breakwater and looked out to sea. There was nothing -- only fog and the lapping tide.
The fog came
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.