I stood at the tip of the dock
looking out over
that salty water.

The fog had come slowly 
that morning,
seeping into the harbor
and quietly covering 
the shore. 

Mussel gathering at noontime 
was raw and wet.
The chilled water numbed my fingers 
until feeling 
no longer pulsed through them 
and blood flowed easily 
from popped blisters,
earned yesterday while chopping wood. 

Later,
when the rain let up a bit,
I stood,
arms spread wide
on the rock wall 
holding human from ocean,
and ocean from human; 
determined to keep all stray children 
from wandering, helpless 
into the hands 
of reckless waves. 

I closed my fingers 
that day, 
around a wispy strand 
of fog, 
drifting gently through the breeze
and quickly learned 
the art of fog catching.

You had to stand 
silently; 
wait until the slightest breeze 
floated by and then,
you had caught it: 
the pure and perfect 
essence of fall mornings,
fog.