In the spring, at the west end of Third Street
Before the outgoing tide slackens
And the sun reaches sky back behind you
You may see one or few aging fishermen
Scurry like sand crabs
     Round the rocks
     And under the docks
At water’s edge along the slim beach.
 
Some will zigzag north toward Fifth
And others south toward the marshland
Each according to starting point or inclination
And each directed by a guarded mental map
Drawn from distinct experiences
Including such notations as
     When to pause
     And where to cast
     And how many times
Into the shallow waters before dashing on.
 
They hunt, of course, the flounder that
Lie in wait for prey of their own.