Docks

The fishermen sit with umbrellas against the chill coming off the bay.
In jackets faded to pastel, they get up when the tiny bells ring, as if to salute the announcement of a midday holiday.
But the bells mean fish, and blue the plastic bags come out filled with smaller ones to be rearranged on lines, and cast mechanically into the gray chop—projecting out from stoic faces worn like the patterns of the dock—stretched fibers from past storms strewn across metallic nails or cheekbones.

Behind, the pyramid looms—a giant in the smoky sheets, and the ferry building dishes out the hours.

Gulls dive, riding circular patterns reflecting the waves, and a bobber begins to skip the water like a stone.

The fisherman tugs — success out of my view, but back, back, back he pulls—returning the filament to our iron-gated shores.

Photo Credit: Verne Ho