The old fisherman’s cast.

His quick jig snaps his lure

against the incoming current

Again,

the slow rhythm of his cast.

The quick jig.

The slow rhythm.

The motoring out of the fishing fleet.

Each morning out to 50 mile tuna, maybe.

The coming back, nearing sundown.

Two holds full, two, maybe three each….

The rest return, skunked.

The speeding through the River’s mouth,

down the center of the red and green

bouy-marked channel.

The slowing turn south at the blinking light

just off Olivers Seafood and Provisions..

Then up into the Intra-Costal marinas.

The old man caught nothing either,

but the turning tide.

(Though he did lose a black bass among the rock jetties…)

The great Mersk box freighter down from Wilmington

half-stacked with truck-length containers.

The Pilot boat close a-stern

for the pick-up of the dropped pilot

south of Frying Pan Shoals.

Day after day after rhythms like the tide,

In…out…in…out…in.

Pelicans and Turns headfirst

dive into swirling currents

marked by mini-white-caps.

Cormorants duck under the waves.

They surface, empty peaked this time too

like the fisherman on the rock.

And all those empty hulled boats.

That’s why they say, “Gone fishing!”

not “Gone catching!”

Twilight comes.

The boats are squared away.

The fisherman, home now,

finishes his Martha’s Chicken al’ la’King

and the evening Fox News….

and a soft snuggle with her

and the dream-sounds of waves

scrubbing the beach.

Come morning he’ll wake before sun-up

to catch the rising tide

to begin again with the ticking tock

of his grandfathers clock

and the slow rhythms of his casts

and the pelicans cricked wing crash

like a Zero at Midway

and the fleet goes out

while laughing gulls,

black heads pointing to the sky

warn him they are in on the ancient joke.

But he casts again.

Maybe this time…..