July 18: Squid fishing
Kristen Lindquist
jigging for squid
in the foggy harbor at night,
flashlight a false moon
Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: squid
Posted with BlogsyJuly 14: Rockport Harbor after dark
Kristen Lindquist
Before the rain falls
headlamps of squid fishermen
shining in the dark.
headlamps of squid fishermen
shining in the dark.
August 3: Squid
Kristen Lindquist
The cat, who was previously very occupied with licking her catnip mouse in the living room, jumped up and dashed into the kitchen meowing querulously, as if she knew that my husband was about to haul out a bag of squid to clean in the sink for dinner. Cats seem able to preternaturally sense the presence of seafood. Our former cat would be in the kitchen waiting if we just talked about having shrimp for dinner. And they have such a sense of entitlement about it, too--we end up having to offer up bits of squid just to placate this demanding creature, this small feline goddess with the great power to read, and sway, our minds.
Ears up, tail wagging,
our cat patiently awaits
her squid offering.
Ears up, tail wagging,
our cat patiently awaits
her squid offering.
August 15: Only in Maine
Kristen Lindquist
I met an old friend from high school for a drink after work today. He's been living a life in high finance and investing in New York, so he doesn't get back to Maine often. When I showed up, he said, "I know I'm in Maine when it's cold and raining and you're wearing flip-flops!"
My friend had taken his two little boys mackerel fishing in Rockport harbor today in a punt with a tiny motor. They hadn't gotten far when the motor broke. But the boys had trolling rods, so he ended up rowing them around the harbor for an hour-and-a-half while they fished for mackerel. They each caught three. I've got to think that as they grow up in suburban New York, their Maine summer experiences will seem magical to them. Those are the lasting memories, the ones that will bind them to this place no matter where they end up.
Walking to my car in the rain, dusk falling, I watched an osprey soar overhead on its way to the harbor. I love that I live in a place where ospreys sail past on a regular basis, in any weather.
Back home, as my husband and I were planning out what to have for supper, a friend drove up with a tray full of fresh-caught squid: there's our meal. Perfect. Only in Maine. It's these little things, these telling little stories of place gathered up each day, that make me feel so grateful that we live where we do.
A friend shares his catch:
squid jigged in Rockport harbor.
Fruit of the full moon.
My friend had taken his two little boys mackerel fishing in Rockport harbor today in a punt with a tiny motor. They hadn't gotten far when the motor broke. But the boys had trolling rods, so he ended up rowing them around the harbor for an hour-and-a-half while they fished for mackerel. They each caught three. I've got to think that as they grow up in suburban New York, their Maine summer experiences will seem magical to them. Those are the lasting memories, the ones that will bind them to this place no matter where they end up.
Walking to my car in the rain, dusk falling, I watched an osprey soar overhead on its way to the harbor. I love that I live in a place where ospreys sail past on a regular basis, in any weather.
Back home, as my husband and I were planning out what to have for supper, a friend drove up with a tray full of fresh-caught squid: there's our meal. Perfect. Only in Maine. It's these little things, these telling little stories of place gathered up each day, that make me feel so grateful that we live where we do.
A friend shares his catch:
squid jigged in Rockport harbor.
Fruit of the full moon.