And I read one more in that series.
"August."
On the Japan Sea, that's the body
of water between the main island of Japan and the continent.
In the summertime they do a lot of squid fishing.
They go out with boats at night, netting the squid.
And then during the daytime, the people from those fishing
villages sleep.
"At night, town of lights at sea,
unpainted rock proud squid fishers,
boats with their gas metal lamps, miles offshore.
Counted 200.
Wind curls on the soft, sticky chest, caked ribs, sticky sea.
They dodging sun, zigzagging barefoot on blistering rocks.
To dive, skim under reefs, down along
ledges looking for oysters, or snails, or fish.
Night without blankets, sleeping on the sand.
That squid fisher lights, one man, two cycle engines.
They sleep all day under the eaves, headland, houses,
half naked on mats.
The wives gather shells, coarse tongue the sun black,
or working at carrying rocks for the new coast road,
eating big lunch balls of crude rice.
Tobacco and grapes on the dunes.
Some farmers come down to the beach, in the dark.
White lanterns, sending out robots swinging, a thousand
foot net, five times down the length of the beach.
We help fall, tumbling pockets, glittering eyes,
and white bellies.
A full-sized young woman, her dress tucked up
in her pants, tugs and curses.
An old man crawling across the dark water sculling.
The last hole, a yard wide ray.
She snaps off his switching devil tail stinger,
and gives us three fish.
They beach their boats full of nets,
the lamps bob over the dunes.
We sleep in the sand, and our souls."
I have eight of those months finished.
I have four more months to go.