Plum Island
BY C. FRANCIS FISHER
When we arrived on the beach famous for its birds
the first one I saw was a seagull with a lame wing.
It was brownish gray and dragged the dispossessed
limb behind it, leaving a trail in the sand. Still, the bird
was cocky, the way it waddled the tide line daring
you to pass. I went into the sea while you stayed on the shore.
For some time, if I am honest, things had not been good.
Down the beach, where I walked to avoid black and biting flies,
a man held a fish by the gills. Two fingers hooked in its head
and the thing so still as he took a selfie. Then, he waded
into the water pulling the fish forward and back until
he let it go. It’s catch and release here, I shared when I returned,
though you hadn’t asked. We stared at the sand, amethyst deposits
that gave the island’s name. I had been accused of not listening.
I had no defense. I am always here, watching white that bowls
across the blue like a cue ball rolling on felt. And here, thinking
how to write it. In the shallows, a boat washed ashore. Stuck
in the breakers, it began to take on water. Again, and again,
the man failed to start the flooded engine. Bailing did not work,
and we bet on the likelihood of them ever making it out. Not good,
we said, not good at all. It was a comedy of errors. But then,
when we raised our heads to leave, the boat was gone.
