The cormorant,
no better
than he needs be,
eyes me with
faux recognition

before slicing
the front porch
of clear shallow
water
we share –
me to watch,
him to fish.

If he is not
from Holland,
and wintering
here,
like I am,
some of the gulls
are.

—–
One gull, confused

(as I am
by four
languages)

by the accents
of light
and shadow
in Alicante/Alacant,

picks up a rock
and
drops it
on a mussel.

The rock does
not break.

—–
Waves,
more memories
of waves

than real surf,

fast break
along the edges
of forever

ample rocks.

—–
The cormorant
watches
me
watching
gulls.

—–
When you
make
your living
sticking out
your neck

under seas
and lakes,

then you must
see more
cormorantly
than I do,
see more
cormorantly
then the fat
northern tourists
in that dusty car do,
see more
cormorantly
than those
short people
in that nearby steep
village do,
see more
cormorantly
than those
tall-backed
Barceloneans
do.

—–
I thought
sea fish
appealed
to the
cormorant’s
taste,
and all
the mussels
were
for me.

I am gulled.

—–
Four men,
of whom the tall
are Spaniards
and the short
are English
on the dole
and
in tax exile,
walk back
and forth
in the
tangible
tangerine
sun.

—–
The top
of Alacant/Alicante
is a very old fort
that I take
in one minute,
relaxed,
by lift.

—–
It is cold
for this month’s norms.

Norwegians take a dip.

The notary who plays
on the beach

with his children

keeps
his coat on.