Watching the Net Fishermen

They are called pescadores, these men who fish
from the point below, a five-gallon white bucket
at their feet, carefully folded nets slung
over forearms.  They release them like discus throwers
and the weighted hems fly out from their pleats
into wide lariat loops the ocean accepts.  Again
and again I watch with seagull patience, pen idle
in my hand, journal asleep in my lap, as the circles
cast sink out of sight.  Then hand over hand
the rope is pulled in, weights gathered and touch,
glimmers of wet sun.  The pescadores want more
than dull glimmers.  They want shining fish
to spill silver across the dark rock, the dance
of scales on aged lava.  And I, watching them,
understand.  We want what evades:
the filled bucket, perfect words and filled bellies.
Moments we can recapture,
licking the run of success from our palms.