Willows hang loose along the
creek's edge, housing the owls' haunting cry,
cries like the old water men's,who once
claimed these shores, swinging their empty pails,
carrying lanterns that lit the dawn.
Black boots pulled hip high, slushed
with muddy dripping matched their skin's color.
Bonded together, with bodies bent against the
blustery winds, listening for the "boy call."
Worn from an ugly struggle, but pushed
onward to channel where hope spun,
hope that nets of fish, and tonged oysters
would relay profit for every man's gain.
When toil peaked against lashing waves,
hope lured them to the creek's calm shore.
Dear friends, good men of old, my sun
dances through a foggy mist, since the
creek has lost its reapers.
Now I live with your silence and the owl's
repetitive song.
