Squads of sea lions,
bored and hungry,
slide past cars of
indifference, past a
bridge built to withstand
earthquakes.
They await a run of
herring, flash and wheeling,
to churn among the waves.
Until then
summer plunks its
days onto the world.
The fish are hiding
in the best cool place left.
Since the treaty the fleet
is smaller, boats which
lay ashore most of the year;
aluminum skiffs with awkward
outboards that breathe
blue smoke onto the water.
Hard eyed gulls sit on piles
of net to take naps. When
the herring rise to spawn the
Bay will smell of fish.
The fishermen are mostly old
enough to remember the dark
battles, the hard words &
sometimes rifle fire. They bring
nephews out for the day.
What hasn’t changed are prices
still set by a few buyers who
bear the same family names.
It’s a fixed game
but the only game in town.
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