by John Dos Passos Coggin<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I\u2019m used to August clinging to my face like fish slime. Days seen through the yellow glass of
\nsummer haze, and nights that my dog tries to expel in a heavy sigh. Today, Cape Cod has visited
\nthe lower Potomac River; everything basks in the warmth and clarity of a new sun that hugs the
\nplanet and then naps behind white clouds. A tern plunges into the waves, seizing silver minnows
\nand shuttling them up and away in a sleight of wings. A sailboat surges upriver, its crimson
\nspinnaker sculpted into sleek curves by a persistent blast of air from the east. A blue crab, a
\nJimmy, paddles with its swimmerets through a wave browned by sediment. Today, I can see the
\nblue flames painted on Jimmy\u2019s claws before he vanishes into the crypt of a crab pot.
\n <\/p>\n
John Dos Passos Coggin is a writer from the Chesapeake Bay region. His poetry has appeared in Pangyrus, Cathexis Northwest Press, <\/em>and The Blue Mountain Review<\/em>. He also co-manages the John Dos Passos literary estate.<\/p>\n
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