Brunswick County- A View from the Bridge
by Rebecca Pierre The morning tide is going out, Making promises to return, Taking with it the silken mist Of night, leaving seashells clambering Over one another at the high tide line. High seas have washed away The dunes, made forays under houses, Leaving stairs askew, A drunken descent to the beach. Wooden rocking chairs crowd together, In the corner of a deck, As if whispering among themselves About the storms they have endured. Where waves have swirled and eddied Around the base of a piling, A group of small fish huddles In a shallow sandy grave. No more a gleam of silver Darting through swells; No chance to meet a natural death In steely clutch of Osprey's claws; Once shining scales now dull grey, They lie drowned in a sea of air. A flutter of pink gill, then another, Brings me to my knees. The fish Weigh in my hands like damp pebbles After spring rain. Released into The ebbing tide, they flip and flop And disappear into the life giving sea. Originally published The Pelican Post Winter 1996 issue.