a boat shimmies its curved belly against
            waters deep.
            Fishing rod sunk down, line
weaving into blackness, hurtling
downwards with a crawfish attached
            that floats just above sea-
                                    bottom, wiggling.
            There it hangs.
Wind northwest ‘cross my                                                               
            cheeks, cold.
Sun it sinks, lower.

            Island blueberries
                        hustled by small hands
                  greedy for the best bunch,
            emerge from the forest, to
sun-drenched rock edge where
            mommy & daddy sit with
gin. Slow fizz. Bubbles trapped against
glass. Burst.       Look mommy look, look what I
            brought for you…
A heavy shove away
            Blueberry juice stains
            the rats’ faces, dirty hands
                        wipe snot across plump cheeks.

The sun has fallen now
                     so low, its edges hardly burn
            the hemisphere alive.
Bait sunk low, crawfish wiggling
                        every now & then.

I know where the bass hide.

            There, in cloudcast skies under rock-
ledge, where the shallow falls unexpectedly into
the deep.          There they swim.

                        The boat crawls forward,
                        towards an island
I lower my rod.