Menemsha Blues

If you have been there, you know.
The little bridge over the tidal inlet.
Rusting metal rail.
Wiping that rust off your shirt after the string of cars pass too closely.
Ducking the line of yet another camera lens.
Gulls crying.
Gulls hovering.
Greedy wonderful gulls.
Sparrows dancing in between and around and inside the pile of lobster cages.
Front door slamming at Larson’s.
Back door slamming at Poole’s.
Clam shells sunning on the dock.
The mighty metal swordfish about to be harpooned. Forever. And ever.
A line at the pumps.
Lines upon lines on the jetty.
Motors seizing.

And then there is an easing.
The ebb flows and the road is clear.
The gulls have followed the schooner out to sea.
The oysters are going down smoothly out on the back steps.
You can let go of the rail.
And out beyond.
A ribbon of impossibly blue water parts the gently waving sea grasses.
A white boat.
With accents of gull and rust.
Menemsha Blues.