Trajn and I walked out on the narrow sandbar lined with pines,
A long elbow arching out into a rough sea, white cowlicks of waves
Pushing in towards both shores, gulls mirroring each set
With their wings. I’d an orange pack stuffed with clothes,
A gas stove, tin plates, and metal cups. She carried bread
We’d bought at a tiny bodega in town—the vinegar, mikan, sake,
And the cooked whole crabs too, their orange shells a match
For the mikan and the Gerry parka she wore, pressed by wind
Blowing snow in boils like baitfish swirling as we made our way
Down the channel of land called the Standing Bridge of Heaven.

We found a rough log to picnic on, broke out our lunch,
Eating in silence as we savored our leisure within a snowglobe.
Then, we looked out over the Sea of Japan where a fisherman
Slowly set out his nets, a silhouette in a boat against a low sun,
Sake warming us to laughter and joy in our youthful plenty.