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the boat is as weathered as his face
it is his life, his treasure
steering the prow to sea hours before dawn
and in that darkness, the nets are set
small talk meanders the ponga
time to catch up on some sleep, other times
arguments erupt between brothers
keeping everyone awake watching stars
once dawn has passed the nets are retrieved
to pay for the daily bread
it was in that uncertainty two perished
as nature's fury rolled from the darkness
those red skies of mourning
son, brothers, husbands, fathers, friends
headstones never say it all
the funerals have come and gone
sitting upon the late morning shore
watching the fishermen, boats lie tethered
their hands are honest, scarred
their knives sharp, scarlet
as they gut the fish above roars
a maelstrom of pelicans, magnificent frigates
in serious air-shore warfare for entrails
and small fish these men toss
there is laughter in those eyes
brothers sharing the plunder of the sea
once the fish are sold they share a beer
stories of the sea, repair nets
clean pongas and more than i will share
by early afternoon they are gone
such is the daily bread here
where the demons howl the night
the angel's right to sing dawn's glory
these are the patron saints of cantinas
vassals to the sea, nature's capriciousness
whose fate on the morrow 
could be drinking in Neptune's Tavern

   San Blas   91   The Patient Stones
   for the fishermen of San Blas, Matachen Bay

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