The Walk

By Gil Hoy

dock out to the sea

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.

Category: Featured, Poetry