I walked into a cloud.
Down 300 steps to the end
of the cliff, the lighthouse
clung like a barnacle.
In its belly a sign: Danger
Intense Sound Signal -- diaphone foghorn,
deep, mournful, two-toned blast.
The common murre flew
through my binoculars
on pointed wings.
I heard the colony moaning
as they huddled penguin-like
on rocks and ledges below.
On the other side of the point
before the parking lot
harbor seals lay far down
on a small beach
like inner tubes with fur.
They had borrowed this moaning language
crying
like a hand rubbing a balloon,
words that no human can spell.
They groaned for milk and sardines
and blood, announced the birth
of fog and flippers and gusts of wind
pulling me over the rail.
Looking down into wave and rock
I thought of the murre's single egg,
oblong, pear-shaped, blue-green like the Pacific
that when struck
rolls in a tight circle
instead of falling off the edge.
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