Deep bellows roll ashore,
Climb the hill and spill from
The Bowl that is our little town.

Their charts crossed
In deep of night,
Still lost to fog
In morning light,
China clippers headed south,
Commerce stacked from deck to skies,
East/West ferries packed with souls,
All ships boom out warning cries,
For maritime fools are sure to be
Lost to port, who cannot see,
Without radar wandering,
Sailing on our Salish Sea.

No little cat feet here,
This  invasion from the sea
A thousand ninjas, maybe more,
A racing horde of cloud,
Blimey the milkman swore
The only warning heard aloud
As these chilling shrouds of fog
Climb the hill and spill from
The Bowl that is our little town.