Crab Pots

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Our spring-time Pacific
is rough for boaters that
beat their way through the
northern wind swells.
Sailing is in my blood,
but sometimes I will go
out for the fish.

Drop a crab pot and return
tomorrow to lift out my catch.
The baited traps can be
so stubborn when I yank them
off the bottom. Some angry
creature arises fighting.
His broad playground of the open sea
has been cornered.

The deep silence ends
so abruptly.
A darkness brought to the
surface to die,
not swim.

I join it to the noise of motor boats
and proud,
shouting sportsmen.

I keep what I pull up.
When the catch
crawls or wiggles out of the net
and falls back in,
I quickly forgive myself.

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4 Responses to Crab Pots

  1. den169 says:

    I appreciate the uniqueness of your talent! Peace!

    Like

  2. Tanya Cliff says:

    Wonderful, Tom! I loved this on every level!

    Like

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