St. Michaels

it's a small water
side village. quaint with
nothing but postcard views.
it's over the bay
bridge, then another bridge.
the boats
are docked, settled in because
of wind.

the flags are stiff
in the breeze,
in blue stripes, red, with
white stars within.
the british flags too
blow bright,
posted on the pier.

crab houses, tackle shacks.
old men in khakis and white
shirts, ball capped and
bent, but strong, still
at the fishing,
the crabbing. children at
the pool,
not quite ready to swim.
women, with their drinks,
weathered with time and sun,
their husbands out at sea,
staring at what future might
be left for them.

from this window I can see
far up the miles river.
past the fishing lines, the
crab pots, the strung nets,
all the way to kent narrows,
almost to the bay.
the water blending in with a
cloud covered blue.

it's a good day for
nothing. for sitting on
this veranda.
legs up, shirt off,
the sun collapsing yellow
and white delicious and warm
against my skin.

it's easy to get lost
in thought, in time, in
memory, this far from home.
a day to decompress,
a night to stargaze,
to listen to water sway,
the end is where we begin.