Muddies

by Halle West

Egrets mount the
final shaft of day,
we idle down
hillside channel,
burning off the
long winter
in ribbons of opal oil.

Like pelicans to
the gutting table,
cicadas to the
waxing summer,
habit resides between
the reedy waterline,
thawed beneath
a waning sun.

Four sleepers
sun-side,
we read the water,
and know the water.
Like the creases
between our palms—
worn against the haul
of empty crab pot;
like the tides embedded
deep within our
waterlogged existence.

Life simmers and settles
in the heart of futile worry

and then we check the pots.