| Current Issue | Contents Page - This Issue | Editorial Staff | About This Journal | Submissions |
| Acceptance Criteria | Haibun Definitions | Articles | Archives | Search | Red Moon Press |

Contents Page: December 31, 2010, vol 6 no 4

[return to Contents Page]

Dennis Magliozzi


Four fishermen stand on the edge of the northern coast, California. They hold large square nets up to the sea and brace themselves while foaming white waves crash in upon them. And from this coming tide, they pull nets full of fish.

To the west, a fog bank – a massive sea-level cloud – pushes its way on to land. What lies beyond the gray-white mist of cloud and sea I cannot see. There are only these men, the road that has brought me here, and the road that will take me away.

One fisherman climbs up to the parking lot where I stand. His buckets are filled with small silver fish the length of a hand. Black eyes and sea-wet skin, this man belongs to the land, but seems so much a part of the ocean. He nods to me and continues across the parking lot where he gets into his red pickup truck and places his buckets on the passenger’s side seat. 

The truck turns over a few times before it fires off a cloud of white smoke from the tailpipe. He revs the engine methodically before turning to the road and drives off around the bend where he disappears.

through the fog
white-caps and sea-stacks –
hidden sun

[return to Contents Page]