once a day the rocks， with little warning-
not much looked for even by the spruce
and fir ever at attention above-
fetch up on these tidal flats and bars.
Large. crate-like rocks， wrapped in kelp；
layer on imprinted1 layer，
umber to claret to olivegreen
of scalloped marbling. . . .
Not far along the path of obstacles
and stepping stones considered，
fluid skeins of bladder wrack2
lie tufted over the mussel shoals-
the seabed black as a shag's neck，
a half-acre coalfield， but alive.
Recklessly multiple， myriads3 compact，
the small airtight coffers （in chipped enamel4）
are starred over with bonelike barnacles
that crackle and simmer throughout the trek5，
gravel-crepitant underfoot.
Evening comes now not with the Evening
Star， but with a breathing fog.
And fog is the element here，
a new term， vast by indefinition，
a vagrant6 damping of the deep tones
of skies and bars and sea.
Sand， mud， sand， rock； one jagged pool
basining a water invisible
except as quick trembles
over algal weed-itself
half-absent， a virid gel.
Walking means to lose the way
in fog， the eye drawn7 out to a farther point，
a dark graph on the faint blue inlet watershine；
out to where a heron stands，
stationing its sharp silhouette8
against the fogbright dusk.
Then， not to be approached，
lifts off and rows upward， up， up，
a flexible embracing-forward on the air，
rising out of view
behind an opaque9 expanse of calcium10 flame.
The great kelp-dripping rocks，
at random11 positions，
lost in thought and dematerializing
with the gray hour，
release， indelibly， their pent-up contents.
-Even the scattered12 feathers here
are petrified13， limewhite blades and stony14 down.
The sky， from eastward， deepens
with the dawning insight
as the seas begin to rise， the flats
slide away， the hulls bear off the ground，
and the eye alien to so self-sufficing
a tidal system turns and takes up how to
retrace the steps that brought it there
