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.

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