This coast, far west and away, a windless shroud of fog bellies down, smothers dune grass, a heavy gray blanketpulls up chill the morning after.
I am now a Vermont poet, moved here from Oregon. On September 12, 2001 I wrote this poem about what it was like walking on the northern Oregon coast beach. I had never seen so much fog on that beach, which was prone to be very windy. September 12, 2001 This coast, far west and away, a windless shroud of fog bellies down, smothers dune grass, a heavy gray blanket pulls up chill the morning after. Mist walkers, hazy down the beach, torsos in motion, settle footprints against outgoing tide, seen through the lens of faraway disappear into the wet, sun-bleared golden lost. Joggers and dogs stay home. There is television. Squinting through my misted glasses, sand cities appear, one after another, rounded humps and lumps of medieval fortresses, the most sand towers ever on this beach where ambitious tides sluice away moats in the first wash. Small hands sculpt grainy turrets and bucket buildings with black water-smooth stone windows. Mothers and fathers, shovels in hand, pat foundations. Families take time as the tide retreats in fog’s privacy. A white clam-shell fence circles a sand-dripped goddess sanctuary paved with unbroken sand dollars. Gull feather flags lean into haze.
Tricia Knoll
