The sea, sky, gray
Rain spray, wind sting
Chilled water wrinkles
Onto boots
He wears his shoulders bent,
Creased ocean, creased face,
Feet planted in the sand
Fishing
Another Christmas passed,
Another year retreats
Return to silence, aging.
Waiting
To be useful, to feel used,
Enough to fuel himself,
So when the boy comes
Asking for help,
Hurt gull wrapped in parka
Trembling
He shifts his feet and smiles,
Good boy. Good boy,
And tells him where to go
To tend the bird
Later, light grows dim,
He packs his fish and gear,
Standing in his dusk,
Gazing at the dunes,
At naked, broken Christmas trees
Blanketing hills
Holding down the sand.
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