As long as it’s near water

today, it is brown as dirt-

a silt carpet – only green strands stir slightly

No manatees or reflection when we try

To find our faces in the mud.

The lines are lashed to the dock

Chicken necks tied to bricks

Sunk into the muck

We wait and admire

The few new skyscrapers

Penetrating the cloudless sky.

We man our positions

one readied with scoop net

the other gently pulls the line to surface

Even rising, the greedy crab

Continues shoveling strips of flesh and skin

When captured in the net.

The cooler is ready.

We alternate between fishing lines

And checking for crabs.

The sun dances on the water and crosses

The sky until it explodes into

Orange Fingers of God

We are not done yet.

The moon and stars climb in the sky

Increasing our smallness.

Souls come out.

We add our lit Camel® non-filters

to the firmament.

Now our focus changes

from crab to shrimp.

We fashion the balls of meal

pitch them overboard and wait.

The cast net flutters open

Spread like wings over the water

Drops suddenly as death.

The art is to let it

Sink, then yank firmly

And quickly haul it in.

Contents spill on the dock

         stunned flapping

         notes success and

         frightened red eyes

         indicate the count.

We compete for most graceful throw,

best catch, and weirdest beast.

Whether the cooler fills

is secondary to bonding among ourselves

and the vastness of sky and water.