"Lines of baited traps are running along underwater ledges, next to spruce-clad islands..."
“Lines of baited traps are running along underwater ledges, next to spruce-clad islands…”

Cold Maine morning on Isle au Haut
Thoroughfare, sun rising earlier and
Higher, steaming breath visible, smell
Of breakfast bacon cooking, diesels
Low idling, lobster season will come
Early, making up for last year’s hard
Winter, loading traps in the pickup.

With new banded buoys, each coil of
Line, promise fills the air, lingering
Cigarette smoke and hot coffee. Yes,
Plowing waves again, not for paying
Bills, but for hardworking families,
Hard labours before sunrise, during
Legal trap hauling times.

Churning diesels music to my ears,
Easing through maze of anchored
Boats, rocky ledges at low tide, then
In good depth, advance the throttle,
Whitewater making, gulls flying over-
Head, we are fishing again, splashing
First weighted traps of the year.

Salt spray on the windshield, I can feel
Lobsters moving in from Atlantic winter
Depths. Prepared, lines of baited traps
Are running along underwater ledges,
Next to spruce-clad islands, distant
sunlit clouds, gloves, boots, cold chop,
Maine lobster season has begun.

Legal Trap-Hauling Times for the Maine
Lobster Fishery. 

Meanwhile, my mystical Maine muse,
Meredith, meandered home.

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