yawn out of the silver
skein of dreams
their turtle-nosed
boats, keel-hauled
across sand from
the green gills of dune
grass, nose into wash.
Nets hung like webs
between pine boughs
spread out for corking
in the starving air
are gathered, ready
for slime-quick fish
to catch in their windows.
Light is rubbed from eyes
as oars drop and hulls leap;
by the ocean, dawn
is most pure.
