He arrives at shore’s edge, just before sunrise.
He’s brought just one rod with him, all he needs.
He baits the twin hooks with shrimp,
Sets feet in the moist sand,
Places fingers by the first line guide,
Releases the reel bail,
Tightens his hand on the rod’s grip,
And steadies his breathing.

He faces the horizon, waiting for the sun to appear,
Then casts just beyond the submerged dune.
Each incoming wave bends the long rod’s tip,
Each pull back to the sea lets it straighten.
Rod bends, rod straightens, again and again.
The pulse of the sea and the pulse of the planet
Becomes the pulse of the man,
All now beating as one.

*Reworked from an earlier version