I fish this bay all morning.
High clouds cap me, a light breeze
tickles the water’s skin.
Fall’s green-brown leaves shade the shore.
By noon, no fish. I lean
over the gunwale staring into the water.
I cannot see past my own reflection,
rippled by clouds & salt.
I do not notice the water’s spasm
20 feet away—
not the quick bright splash of scup or blue,
but silent muscular surface turbulence,
a ribbed intimation of mighty motion below.
The sky does not speak, nor the sea talk.
Mirrors, they breathe images
in the cadenced wash of pure extension.
Face to face with our future,
we cannot see the whale
who will swallow us whole.
—Bob Fauteaux
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
The New Benefit of Clergy
On November 9, Russell Brand was sentenced to over ten years in prison for one count of…
Realism and Reunion
Ecumenism has, to put it mildly, stalled. Since the beginning of this century, efforts aimed at bringing…
Say It with Your Chest
Recent years have seen an explosion in a particular subgenre of sociopolitical commentary. Bonnie Kristian calls it…
