They sit in their vehicles behind the Centre communautaire
     high-beam headlights illuminating but a sliver of the temperamental Strait,
safely distanced from the two-storey crests
     that rhythmically break on the browbeaten shoreline.

The flashing red and green lights at l’entrée du quai are visible to them
     at a relative bearing of 75 degrees,
although it’s not likely that any seabound vessel will need them to navigate –
     not on a night like this.

Propped up on their seasonal skeletal scaffolding,
     leurs bateaux acadiens are on the wharf’s dryland,
the names of their children (never their wives or girlfriends)
     etched on so many of the bows.

One season is over, but the other 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.