There was laughter in the backyard, dry land beneath you.
Company was sweet as the salmon on the barbecue. Your fresh caught specialty.
You welcomed even the uninvited into that yard too small for
your heart. Watched The Great Northern ships that bore your words home:
The higher the boat
the lower the catch
You remembered vessels so heavy with sockeye they seemed to be
sinking. Of being called to the cannery line to help.
From your house, you could see the anchored vessels. The Great Northern One.
The Great Northern Three. You couldn’t see time depleting its stock.
The higher the boat
the lower the catch
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