A Town Survives By Fishing Early Light

My horse's haunches sway, Saunter up hillocks and down a valley path, Above a ridge off and on: a village where some people fish, Phosphorescent flotsam washed ashore. Green embers breathe as if through shriveled lungs. Wax in contrast to the gloaming dark that's coming on. Shrubbery shadows lengthen, enlarging blacknesses. Crickets ratchet down their temperatures. The earth cools in wan mirage. Time lapsed, the stars make A slow, quiet carousel of lights. It circles far above us disengaged. Wings of crows scoop pools of air, Then dive down open maws On tiny, furred crawlers shocked stock still. Crows chalk their caws across the night. A copse will grow into a stand of oaks. The vintage children like to climb. Gnarled limbs reminding them of fiction sailing ships. Hand over fist to where the topmost rigging is. For now, people and trees are bottled tiny on a shelf. At dry dock like some whittled models are. Until the oak is christened keel and frame And of agers live lives and make their livelihoods at sea. (9/18/22)