As the remnants of the evening fog,

lift like a curtain on a broadway stage,

anticipation builds in the show which is to unfold. 

The production of a new day has debuted,

with the sunrise on the branch,

bringing to life the shimmering aqua crystals,

which dance across the surface,

like millions of brilliant strokes of light.

As I stand and observe at the edge of the run,

the reflections of my soul I see in the tide.

We are the writer, the producer and director,

with a supporting cast ready to perform,

a play not yet told.

Time is etched in the deep furrows of the worn, wooden decks.

The spirt of the oystermen forever displayed in the stains of the copper plates,

which cover the cypress hulls.

The essence of the Chesapeake Bay will always be symbolized,

by the one true work boat, the Skipjack.

Deep waters of the bay have given this vessel her character, her independence,

but, have exacted a heavy toll from the heritage,

she once helped to shape.

A fading heritage, which progress and time,

have been much less kind.

Recall the seasons when this heavy-hulled workboat,

tilled the bay’s floor in search of shellfish.

Using only mainsail and tiller to provide direction,

the waterman repeats an ageless ritual,

once the life blood of the bay,

now a hallowed memory.

The unfurling of canvas sails and stringing of hemp nets,

characterized the daily duties of the oystermen.

Daybreak is greeted by raised mainsails and haul lines,

straining against the winch drum,

anticipating a bountiful result.

The oysters are hauled aboard and culled,

by the merchants of the Chesapeake.

The oystermen have a keen eye and deep respect for the bounty,

sorting the catch, more an art that drudgery.

Rejected stones are returned to the deep,

the remaining provide the ultimate feast for the palate.

Final respect can be paid to these mighty, wooden symbols,

in quiet harbors and museums, worthy of their presence.

Winches lay silent, the decks are empty,

wooden hulls lie nestled in a quiet harbor.

Visitors stand next to the gunnels of these majestic giants,

dreaming of a time when men, who had a deep love for wood and the bay,

Combined spirits to sail the Chesapeake.

Stand still and inhale the crispness of the dawn,

You will be reborn.

Going beyond the comfort of your evening slumber,

Provides your soul with a new horizon,

For your heart, a direction not taken.

Whether it is viewing the ripples on a placid lake on a summer morning,

Or breathing in the aroma of pines in the woods,

The gift of today is a reward for being grateful and believing in miracles.

Tomorrow’s are expected, but not promised.

When it comes make sure you take a moment,

To rise and meet your future,

 Inhale your good fortune.