They sit in their 4-wheel-drive pick-ups behind the Centre communautaire
high-beam headlights illuminating but a sliver of the temperamental Strait,
safely embowered while eying warily the two-storey crests
that rhythmically break on the browbeaten shoreline.
The red and green lights flashing at four-second intervals at l’entrée du quai are visible to them
at a relative bearing of 75 degrees,
although it’s not likely a craft of any size will need them to navigate –
not on a night like this.
Propped up on their seasonal skeletal scaffolding,
leurs bateaux acadiens are safely stored on the wharf’s dryland pour l’hiver,
the names of their children (never their wives or girlfriends)
lovingly etched on so many of the bows.
The lobster season is over in Zone 25, but the change of seasons proceeds apace.
This tempête won’t be too bad – not like Fiona,
when the seiche spilled its briny contents over the high harbour walls,
as if to remind of what l’océan could do, if it wanted.
Tonight, les pêcheurs are safely cached in their wheeled vessels
close enough to lock eyes with their manic paramour,
but just beyond her violent fin d’octobre touch.
Both know they will need to embrace gently again soon enough.