Etching Poem by Leo Yankevich

We set out with our nets,
cold in our little ketch.
Where the dark water wets
the breaking dawn, we etch
with sleepy mortal eyes.
Voracious cormorants
scud, dive, and swiftly rise
from murky whirlpool currents,
unwary silver bream
inside their crooked bills.
We sail as in a dream
while blood drips from their gills,
our calloused dirty fingers,
as always, mocked and scorned
by clouds, an ache that lingers,
the pain of prey unmourned.
We watch enskyments, faces
looking heavenwards.
Never are their traces.
We say with a few words:
"fishers of faith are we,
far, far from Galilee."