hoping for a handout while the dark sky broods,
threatening rain, but the morning sun
ignites the surface of the sea with an amber fire.
The Sea Farmer chugs south towards the open sea,
or perhaps he’s headed to Tomales Bay or Bodega Harbor
while the landfolk sleep sound in the coastal hills,
recumbent as a woman tangled up in sheets,
and no one in the houses is awake.
All the dark windows of the soul are closed,
dreaming of an open sea.
2/11/24 Molly Fisk PaD
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