Etching

We set out with our nets, cold in our little ketch. Where the dark water wets the breaking dawn, we etch with sleepy mortal eyes. Voracious cormorants scud, dive, and swiftly rise from murky whirlpool currents, unwary silver bream inside their crooked bills. We sail as in a dream while blood drips from their gills, our calloused dirty fingers, as always, mocked and scorned by clouds, an ache that lingers, the pain of prey unmourned. We watch enskyments, faces looking heavenwards. Never are their traces. We say with a few words: "fishers of faith are we, far, far from Galilee."