By RAHN ADAMS
The old man lets out his net / one float at a time / across the wide, meandering channel / making an S in the tidal grass.
In these calm estuarine waters / on the mainland side / of this despoiled barrier island, / a full-moon tide is on the rise.
But the milky tide does turn, / and the man reappears / to retrieve his gravid gill net / brimming with salty backwater bacon.
The ebb tide carries him away, / pulling him toward the inlet, / where he must leave the marsh / to cruise upriver toward home.
These are his healing waters, / but they are only half his life, / as tempests and red tides / do pock the rest of his time with strife.