Crab Catchers

The Sunday fishermen
bait their expectations, shifting
their weight along the slack and draw.
Swinging long poles across the sky,
they slice a dozen new horizons,
stare out of narrow eyes, and wait
like disciplined beagles for the crabs.
They bring their separation with them,
deliver themselves to the mineral curve
of bay, making all distances
seem possible, and time the letting
out of lines.
And whether they look
above their weaving higher, where gulls
fold thin legs flat beneath their tails
and splash through air; or feel the looseness
of the wind around their wrists —
water trembles, air shakes
when the tug comes from hook to hand-
a burst of fountains. And the whole world
flies, untangled, into their faces.