Sculpted on
the horizon, a shrimp boat-
the bow appearing, then reappearing,
as
it's distant, tall mast crosses the salt marsh.
Hanging nets,
stiff with brine, shape the wind,
while in the wide wake, a flock of gulls
trails-
so white above the shimmering leakage.
With the
cooling breeze, her steady approach
is unmarked by bent backs and such
tired eyes-
though the sounds of soft voices comes down the sea.
Docked; but
still the cargo hole brims with catch,
As the sunset slips down through the
rigging,
And the full moon rises to surf the dark waves.
