OREGON INLET, AUGUST, 2011
We stand on packed gravel by the marina
In the hot afternoon
And look east, down the wide inlet
And to the horizon
It is a perfect, unbroken line
Between sky and sea
Not a sign to be seen.
Then she draws me away
Pointing to children, calf-deep in backwater
Bacon swinging on a string
On a stick
They are netting crabs
And having a fine go of it.
I look at the others milling about
There are more now than half an hour ago
But no one looks at watch or phone
Do they know more than we do
Or less?
I look east again
And there they are
I’ve never seen this before
But this must be how it looks every day
Black dots on the horizon
North and south
Silent and seemingly static
But they merge as if directed by some officer
With whistle and gloves
Standing on the ocean
Five miles from shore
The westward line forms
The dots equidistant, still silent
And in moments the dots are not black, but white
Now and again lost for moments in the glare
Now I see the tall rigging, the outriggers
The trophy flags, red, yellow and white
What do they mean?
There is no engine sound until the boats
glide down the inlet
And turn into the quay
They dock, one by one
And deck hands, energetic
Lift long fish from the boats’ ice bins
And throw them one by one onto the deck
They bounce, hollow-sounding
Against the sun-bleached boards
Black tuna, now walleyed
Only hours ago breathing in the blue depth
And racing in the sunny, green shallows
Of the unbounded ocean.
Now they are meat
The sharp knives work quickly
Expertly turning the creatures
Into steaks and filets
Red as a raspberry
Home Economics 