Florida Fishermen
A hazy fog has settled upon the endless line of ocean, chasing away the bikini-clad tourists and leaving only fishermen; the same fishermen, who appear like dew upon the rocks every morning before anyone can wake up to see how they got there. A light drizzle patters against the yellow raincoat of one. Five men cast their lines from every corner of their boat by a post in the bay, the same spot they fished yesterday; and I marvel that the aquatic occupants there haven’t learned to find alternative residence yet.
Someone comments on how boring fishing seems to them; but how could it be—with nature performing its intermissionless song and dance in every inch of their peripheral? Spindly white veins weave their fingers at the break of each repetitive wave upon the shore before fading into turquoise green. They paint a sandy pattern around the expanse of sea like the edges of a geode. The sky above softly brightens to reveal creamy clouds spread like whipped butter.
The fog has lifted. Dawn becomes day, and the sacred silence of morning has passed until tomorrow, when these same fishermen will return to take their posts once more along the ocean’s edge to catch—not fish—but a taste of the divine.
