In the morning at the ocean, several men were casting lines. I wondered what they would catch as the waves broke in ferocious froth, and the fog lowered. A fish that would not snap their gear, unlike a shark or tuna.
It doesn’t feel like the eve of summer solstice, more like March. The roses are late, and sweeet pea still timid. Underneath, things are rooting, moving around, like the invisible fish these men seek.