It wasn’t a secret that you could go beneath it.
We descended stairs and found
men with green buckets, poles jutting
over the railings,
lines hanging all the way down
to the North chop,
or the South calm.
My friend asked what they had caught,
or expected to catch.
In our concrete and metal shelter,
salt wind grazed our cheeks
only to smooth over the canal side.
Expansive glad shades of gray
prepared for military subs.
The bridge center could
slide back anytime
to frustrate a highwayfull
of drivers
itching for peninsular retreats.
Does stillness ever seep backwards
to quiet its source?
Turning around towards the open Sound,
we found a tumult of tiny bursts,
small, frantic, painted strips
(magenta, purple, blue)
reaching upwards out of the depths.
Water ladies called us,
dive in.
We stood close, desiring their lush hues,
bewildered.
We waited there as the oblivious sun
prepared to finish
its glacier-bound course.
We easily forgot
how both sides held the same water.
revised 12/28/08
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