it makes no difference where you go
in this world,
the job of fishing
is a man's.
you might see three men fishing;
or two men and one woman
--maybe even a man, a woman and one gull
stretching out its wings, sitting one-legged,
patiently watching for signs of life
on the igneous rock at Depoe Bay.
tonight at dusk i saw a woman
casting out her line into a tumultuous sea
steely grey and frothy white with winter horses.
upon glimpsing her
my heart began singing with possibility:
stereotypes crashing hard, broken.
the gull took to the air
with its usual cry of mourning,
fighting a salty gust from the spitting clap of a breaking wave.
the fisherwoman staggered in her boots
then leaned back, reeling in her line
just as another form appeared
from behind the frozen lava:
the (unexpected, disappointing) boyfriend figure
fully outfitted beyond reach of imagination,
head down-turned, ready to call it a night.
meanwhile the woman and the gull
finished the story
together in the disappearing sky.