From 'the Double, Viii' Poem by Morgan Michaels

'God', snorted Langley, his eyes starting.
'Que', shouted Miggi, over the roar of the motor, hair flattened by the wind. English made him nervous. But he followed Langley's finger.

'Mira', cried Langley, pointing to sea.

There he saw what Langley thought might be their end. A mile or so off whirled a ghostly waterspout, like a dancer on the whitecap-ridden main.

To be sure, he found it less alarming than Langley, because he was cool under fire and also he'd seen them before. This one rattled him, though. Waterspouts were breath-taking, seen from shore, where you could safely enjoy their slow-motion balletics. But, on their own turf they were frightening- long, glassy cones of sheer spume hanging between earth and sky, upright or drooping like a staggered daisy whose waist couldn't support its heavy crown.