By Holly Hughes
The shoreline sheathed in fog as we run east
into dawn. We can’t see a thing
but the bow-wave carries the dawn
and we follow, trusting.
6 a.m. and the radio’s silent before the boats waken.
Coffee’s on and we ease into the day at seven knots,
a speed I’ve learned is fast enough
to get anywhere.
I re-read your letter now, telling of theater
in New York, and I can’t help but wonder
what could be better than this,
watching the fog curtain rise
as the gillnetters trail in, their long skirts flowing,
shining holds empty and expectant,
while the salmon wait, silent silver
dreams in dark waters.