TURNING HOMEWARD

Our fish-catching journey began early

on a windy winter morning, when we

were awakened before dawn by the cherry

tree’s branches beating a tattoo on the window,

urging us outside to wait in silence

for our ride, the dewy mist trembling with

anticipation around us. On the drive

to the shore, our wipers lazed against a fine

fume of drizzle, rural Maryland growing

like grey mushrooms into the dawn, winter-thin

trees presenting themselves nervously

like wedding parties, all silver and white.

We boarded the boat at first light, the bay

heaving beneath, alive, thrumming, soft white

belly up, smooth to the touch, cold. We each

took our position on the deck, hot coffee

at hand, life vests pulled tight, rods held out

like swords ready to plunder the water.

We were thrilled to soon fill our coffers

with shimmering riches but by noon,

the sun still weak from breathing the ocean’s

cold gases, seagulls cycling noisily

overhead, coveting our unused chum

and the steaming red blood of gaffed bluefish,

we longed for a place of warmth, of familiar

flowers and aromas. And when the sun began

its slow-motion descent like a copper

coin tossed into the palm of the horizon,

and the brassy seagulls had put away

their cymbals, we packed up our rods and turned

our prow homeward, yearning to be welcomed

by the beds we abandoned that morning.