Water thrums against my craft
Reminds me of its deep voice
That’s like no other-
Splashing. Battering. Booming.
And this I’ve remembered for over forty years
Yet it still echoes across my bow
Smells like weeds rolled in sand
With fish-guts iridescent in the foam.
Meanwhile, my Shakespeare (rod and reel)
Scrapes against the bench its filament
Tangled in the troller, risen above the wake
And 4 o’clock seems to have quietly crept in
Sculling across my thoughts, as I check the sun’s coordinates
And now, the time of bloody fire has come
Aglow in a red-orange rage– arching behind the oaks
Screeching its tumble right down to course’s end