By Molly Swan-Sheeran

The moon is hidden behind the thick grey
     but I know it is fully round and ripe up there.
I launch my dinghy and row out into the darkness
     sighting my course by a big grey stump of a
          long-gone tree that drifted ashore and sits.
The clunk and sweep of my oars wakes up streaks of spangles
     that comet out across the water.
Suddenly below the surface schools of fish are startled
     into action, leaving platinum trails in a V-shape,
          they scatter.
Each dip of my oar into the giant inkwell of unknown depth
     surprises little fishes.
I cannot see fish. I can barely see the oars.
I cannot see moon aft of me
     or home ahead,
but by these pale lighted signs
     I know.
     I know.

Copyright 2001 Molly Swan-Sheeran

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