The Docks
Loman John stared into the darkness. He could hear the steamer-ship — could always hear the steamer-ship — before its dim lights came into view. The fog was low in the evenings, and even the strongest lanterns could not pierce the mist for more than a kilometer at most; but the hissing grind of the engines were unmistakable, and it carried even in the Cliffside fog.
The layfolk called it fog, but Loman John knew more names. Every dockworker did. There were fogs that were light and pleasant, like butterflies kissing your skin. There was damp and heavy fog, the kind that made your socks wet. There were the mists that covered the air like smoke, and you couldn’t see three feet in front of your face. There were more besides, and each had their own name to the Dockworkers of Cliffside.