Evening: Barents Sea

The trawl of unquiet mind drops astern Great lucid streamers bar the sky ahead (bifurcated banners at a tourney) light alchemizes the brass on the bridge into sallow gold now the short northern autumn day closes quickly the thin coast (of grey Norway is it, or of Russia?) distinguished only as a formal change in the pattern of clouds on our port side on the deck the strung lights illuminate no movement but the sullen swill of water in the washer, but the unnatural way dead starfish and disregarded dabs swim in the strict seas surging through the bilges and out. A fishgut hangs like a hank of hair from the iron grill in a pound board brighter now that the sun, the fishfinder's green bleep catches the skipper's intentness and the trawl is down, is out, is catching!