For R.B. upon returning to port
Though the middle of November,
The soft air shimmered, balmy, warm.
As the sun, trite dying ember,
Touched the sea, a voracious swarm
Of marlin breached. One intrepid
Fisherman, caught a predator,
Blue, swift, and sleek. In the tepid
Air, at once, that noisy furor
Afflicting all the world grew still,
Silenced by awe, and skill-caught thrill.
(11/14/07)