Like frightened turtles, these sturdy men
hunch their necks into their collars,
turn inward, so they might find
shelter inside themselves—or an excuse
for not pushing the heavy dory out
into the wind. Maybe some repair undone,
the rigging still a tangle of rope
and icy brine. But they find no excuse,
and what they fear, that line of purple clouds,
still faces them. They know how thunderheads
emerge from distant hints, darkening breakers,
sweeping them with sulks and shadows.
The sea will simmer and rise, exploding
from its bowl of shifting sand ... But now,
these ruddy men have jumped on board
and rowed into the inlet, and from the look
on each red face, each face of these nine men,
they're hating every second in this wind
shifting to gale. Yet they've pushed off
as if so ordered. But who would order it,
who among us, to send nine fishermen
into a sea like this, to fetch a dollar home,
a dollar for their catch? We see them disappear
into a haze beyond our calling, as they ride out
upon a timeless swell. And our last sight
tells us not of any terror they might feel
but of a boyish inkling they've been caught
in the act of realizing, a little late,
this is something they should not have done.

-first published in Hamilton Stone Review