Winter/Spring 2015

Call this snake-neck cormorant Charley, after the hurricane.

The battered mangroves won’t mind –
their broken branches Confederate gray, the shattered pickets left after a fatal charge.

Upstream, the Yankees do what Yankees do, reconstruction in their own image.

Hey, Charley, don’t spook the fish.

                  *

The tide runs low, near slack.
         Time to break, reel in our lines.

Sailboats flock
among the white pelicans,

         anchored for finger sandwiches, salads, light wines.

Who’s the commodore in the blue blazer, silk ascot, white slacks and captain’s hat?

         These waters are only waters for shallow keels.

                  *

Barely perceptible, the pull, light as a baby’s pulse,
         the redfish and seatrout migrate back onto the flats.

No need for tide tables.

                  *

My first casts, never real casts,
         less than mosquito slaps against existence.

The silver spoon dragged through the water
         flickers like a metal spoon dragged through the water –

not tantalizing with the twitches of a wounded pilchard.

         Quiet. Turn off the electronics.

Hear what the water tells us.
         Feel the drift of the line through fingertips.