We're in a land where it takes
fifty-one minutes to drive seven miles
because it's all coastland
and bridges and islands and pine trees
and the little cafe we navigate to
sits atop a rocky ledge that drops into the cove.
The fried seafood is caught right off the coast,
mere hours from the water,
before their buttermilk dredge and final roil in a fryolator.
We are at land's end, on the brink of the ocean,
guarded by granite coastline and a merry bobbing of boats.
Outside, tall ships sail pass motorboats.
Enormous red white and blue flags snap in the breeze.
Clumps of seaweeds float on the surface of the ebbing tide.
Sun streams through the window,
alighting on beet salad and local brew.
While a tableside skirmish breaks out over a purloined frite
the group quiets when the whole bellied clams drop in from overhead,
guided by a servers' steady hands.
A grateful quiet spreads, with only
the gnashing of butter-drenched lobster knuckles
and a masticating of local coleslaw piercing the sea-damp air.
Our lips smack, our cheeks raise high, smiles break out.
This is high summer in Maine,
all drawn butter and crustaceans and crispy local greens
and generations aligned by a pursuit of August's best bounty.
