Approaching the Estuary

At dawn he enters the estuary.
Day, night married in the golden ripples,
like soft purple robes.
While waves gently lap the sides of his skiff
he surveys the staked rows – full of oysters,
and breathes musky spray and seaweed
coming from slimy mollusks.

The night before, in small lamplight,
needle and thread deliberate –
(up down cross left right);
he mended his nets
worn through by salt and sun.
He rose early to enter the ritual waters,
putting the boat out and stepping in.
His methodical oars stroked the murky waters:
the rising and kneeling in a Sunday pew.
And he casted his eyes off the right side.

Bending down he presses the oyster into his palm
as sea and salt intertwine in flesh.

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