By Gil Hoy
I remember
summer mornings
before anyone else
was awake
Opening the silver
side screen door
dark grass, soft carpet
under bare feet
the already sultry sun
and moist salty air
Walking out
onto a wooden dock
with rusty nails, old varnish
and a weathered bait bucket
attached by a coiled
brown rope
that was fraying
like a horse’s unkempt tail
Thousands of rumbling fiddler crabs,
when it was low tide,
like hordes of buffalo
trampling on sand
and blue-gray stones—
When the whole world
seemed to consist of
my grandparents’
back yard, and the sea.