Sky sours into sunset & the tugs run
against the tide, that dark line of struggle.
Now slowed only by cargo, the current,
a cruise ship sailing its longest night home.
Before, in the narrows, nearly a bridge:
two peaks beneath the surface, eddying
the sea. You would want to call it malice,
but it’s just luck that you’d rather avoid.
For years they let boats catch in the shallows;
how easy men drown in sight of the shore.
It is said when they cratered Ripple Rock
they stopped counting all the fish in the trees.
There’s a feast to be had from any life
& bless the gulls aren’t picky.
