I fish this bay all morning.
High clouds cap me, a light breeze
tickles the water’s skin.
Fall’s green-brown leaves shade the shore.
By noon, no fish. I lean
over the gunwale staring into the water.
I cannot see past my own reflection,
rippled by clouds & salt.
I do not notice the water’s spasm
20 feet away—
not the quick bright splash of scup or blue,
but silent muscular surface turbulence,
a ribbed intimation of mighty motion below.
The sky does not speak, nor the sea talk.
Mirrors, they breathe images
in the cadenced wash of pure extension.
Face to face with our future,
we cannot see the whale
who will swallow us whole.
—Bob Fauteaux
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
The Church’s Answer to the World (ft. Carter Griffin)
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Fr. Carter Griffin…
Voyages to the End of the World
Francis Bacon dreamed of abolishing disease, natural disasters, and chance itself. He also dreamed of abolishing God.
The Lost Art of Saying “No”
Conservative pundit Matt Walsh recently contended that “we have to recapture the long-lost art of saying ‘no.’”…
