Fog hovers over the Gulf.
The morning sunrise has taken off.
Fishing gear loaded in the kayak.
Sunscreen on front and back.
Reel in the unneeded slack.
Attack!
Fish on the hook.
It’s Santiago’s marlin from that Hemingway book.
All the anglers will gather around to take a look.
It’s been eighty-five days since I’ve caught a fish.
In the Straits of Florida, I got my wish.
My unlucky streak finally came to an end.
Only by the time I towed it home, it was a skeleton.
18-feet long from the far out deep.
The sharks ate my dreams, I’m going back to sleep.
Nomad 