Sweeping like scimitars, slicing through the foam,
The dolphins: a low evening sun
ripples gold daggers jagged down their flanks.

Unheard, unseen, the far sea-world
sensed through each shimmering nerve;
each taut, tense, rolling back
a trembling hawk’s wing carving curve on curve…

And there, beyond the dying evening light
The driftnets wait, long, loose, and slack,
Like nooses dangling in a lonely night.