Fishermen are good at sea.
               Strong arms, pull steady sails
                             In shifting wind,
                                           In storm.
Rudders for left hips guid straight to streams pregnant with catch, so they may cast their nets in place of incantations.
                                                                                                                                                            Heave!

And here’s the day—easy. The water like a looking glass, they sit upon white decks watching the world. Fishermen are very good at sea.

When beached, the ground moves under them. Confident steps slide, awkward and uneven. The air too warm, the wind too dry. The sea just there, and not.
               They’re caught
               Right on the precipice of life—free to stare, but not enter.
There, they mend their nets. Knit fingers bloody, set gaze upon the sand. Bottle up complaints—though that part’s harder. They wake and walk and sleep, all on flat land and adrift, with only God for anchor. Soon, He murmurs, voice a promise. Today, nets must be mended.

– Eliza Fisherman