The putrid smell

of the empty oyster shell

Lies in the fog

of the marsh

like a tick 

in the hair of a dog

during the early morning tide 

as the sun 

decides 

not to hide any longer,

and the water 

recedes back to its ocean home.

And now the boat 

slowly makes 

its final approach

to the port where the sailors 

sleep in Boston Whalers,

and others empty crabs 

into metal containers.

Drops of gasoline leak 

into the steady sea

making swirling rainbows 

with peacock coloring.