Wind and waves hold
power here;
resolute action is
tidal.
Fish and crabs know
nothing
about the left and
right sides of aisles;
partisanship exists
only with regard to bait.
Rivers and creeks
are the corridors
in which history is
made;
measured in bushels,
and in the size
of jimmies,
rockfish, and blues,
and the ones that
got away.
The only monuments
here
are stacks of
crabpots and
piles of oyster
shells;
an old deadrise
sunk in a creek.
Marble is reserved for
the graves
of watermen when they no longer
go out in boats at dawn.
go out in boats at dawn.
There is tranquility
here—
found on the river
at dawn;
seen as an eagle
circles out over the water;
felt when easing a
hook out of the mouth
of a fish too small
to keep.
We may think all
that is important
lies upriver, along
grand avenues;
in meeting rooms
and marbled halls,
but everything
flows in this direction;
the lower pulls
down the higher;
the way overcomes
from below.
