I

Red sky at night.
I watch them work,
Unmoored, drifting
Into the dark,
The only light
A distant point
Over their shoulders
As the sea rises
And falls.
Nothing they can do
But wait.

II

Their hands seem easy
On the rods,
The reels, unlatched,
Pay the lines out
Into slack,
Hook, line and sinker
Going down passed
The boat's shadows.
You don't see him,
But you know he's there.
Somewhere, and if you're patient
You'll see the line
Pull tight, hear
The ratchet's turning.
Watch them haul him in,
All fins and scales,
Lidless eyes
Never quite lifeless.
Deeper than their own.

III

I watch them work,
Feet in the water,
Heads in the clouds
Drifting off
Port to starboard,
As they sit still
Reaching down
Into heavy pails
Of water and clams.
Again and again
Quick hands
Passed down
From mother to daughter
Empty the pails
As soon as they are filled
Or until the pails come back
Empty.
The soft, pale
Meat inside
Is what they're after.
Baked, or fried,
It makes good food
And the ceaseless demand
Gives them something to do.
Earns them a living.

IV

Sometimes, at dawn,
When the sky is water
And the water is sky,
The bay almost seems
What it used to be,
Once. Wide, dark, alive,
It runs out to sea
Without ends
Or beginnings
Like some god,
Opening his hands
To offer you clams
For no good reason.
You're tempted to throw some back
As a good will offering.