The tide pulls gently,
its rhythm a pulse beneath the surface,
lapping at the rocks,
edges smooth from centuries of motion,
where barnacles cling, stubborn,
to the dark, wet stone.

Three figures stand,
their feet sinking into the soft, gritty floor,
water wrapping around their ankles,
lapping at their calves.
One wears a shirt that clings to his back,
the sweat mixing with the salty air,
beads of water slipping down his neck.

They are fishermen,
but not with rods or reels;
no boats cast into the horizon here.
Instead, they bend, hands reaching,
gripping the taut edge of the net,
spreading it wide across the surface,
its fibers delicate, but strong,
woven with the precision
that only years of practice can craft.

A plastic bag in hand,
its sides bulging with the day’s catch,
held tightly by one of the men,
whose brow furrows in concentration
as his fingers brush the edge of the net,
pulling it with practiced care.
The others mirror his movements,
synchronized by necessity,
as the net descends into the water,
where fish dart between rocks,
silver flashes in the sunlight.

The sea here is shallow,
clear to the bed,
its sand pale,
dappled with shadows from palm trees
that stand just beyond the water’s reach.
A single coconut tree leans over the shore,
its leaves rustling faintly,
watching the scene unfold,
its roots long buried in the sand.

The men move slowly,
their feet stirring the sand,
dark clouds puffing up,
momentarily blurring the view beneath.
The net, heavy now,
gathers what the water offers:
small fish, shells,
perhaps the glint of a lost coin,
forgotten by time and tide.

One of the men,
his hair slick with sweat and sea,
pauses, adjusting his grip,
the net heavy in his hands.
He glances at the sky,
its tropical hue softened by the late afternoon light,
clouds gathering on the horizon
like silent witnesses.

With a heave,
they lift the net,
water cascading from its sides,
the weight of their labor tangible,
pulling against their hands,
as if the sea is reluctant to surrender its bounty.

A low murmur passes between them,
voices carried by the wind,
their words simple, unhurried,
woven into the cadence of the waves.

They pause,
for a moment,
their figures etched against the sea,
the horizon stretching endlessly behind them,
a reminder of the vast world just beyond their reach,
where boats drift far off,
unseen but present,
and the world continues its quiet turn.

The palm tree sways,
its leaves catching the breeze,
casting brief, fleeting shadows
over the water,
and the men move again,
pulling in the last of the net,
their work done for now,
their feet wet,
their hands calloused,
and the sea,
still whispering its secrets,
recedes once more.

S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 25, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849753104197316988?t=TLYBrq3mSmM-uOeUBrxGVA&s=19

https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1684