Ankle deep, soles balancing on eelgrass beds.
Oystercatchers frolic on the southern shore,
keen on limpits and mussels, their fire beaks
long like the harpoons wielded by those
harvesting swordfish off the Georges Bank.

The soft whistle of the marram grass,
a gentle reminder to keep my harpoon at bay.
Two sluggos hooked to the chest of my waders,
while one dances with the rising tide,
careful not to wake the scallop beds.

At the north end, the sixteen slips still at work,
two draggers, nostalgic, rest together.
Across the way, one dinghy and one Hinkley, both tied
near the nestled shacks, their robin egg blue window panes
and shingles weathered by hurricanes and sandpiper droppings.

The path to the jetty a little narrower, the buoy a little quieter,
dinner already plated at home, and never one to be tardy.
One more cast turns into four, pace slower on each,
gripping the cork handle a little tighter,
until I finally yield, my sluggo, a little shorter, meets

the eye of the third guide.