Coming out from Carrabelle
South through the veering channel
Into Saint George Sound
Past the weathered docks and sheds
Of the fishery with its pungent near-rot
Of salt and fish odors, the unaccustomed
Stinging spray and hollow slap
Of the pummeled hull, sunglare
A white maze over the whipping awning,
I crouch, palest of landsmen,
Amid the strewn tackle and groceries,
Skull grinning in the wind.
—Laurence Donovan, Dog Island

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