Crab season

Home is the deep moss green water where eelgrass grows, where they walk sideways the floor. Their bodies are hard-shelled, spiny-backed, painted a blotchy raw umber with tinges of purple; they have cream-colored undersides. When cooked, they turn bright orange. I've looked into their beady-eyes, and wondered if they could see me and if they have thoughts or any idea of living dangerously.

Using a GPS, fishermen drop round, cage-like crates called pots from their boats, setting them 100 feet deep.  Filled with raw bait, they are left for hours. Crabs sense and follow the scent of chicken parts or anchovies, oblivious to the lines connecting the cast iron traps. Innocent of any crime, they are captured, prized for their delicate meat.

The men return no later than dusk, finding several crab, still pinching their claws, in each crate. Though females survive, are thrown back, so goes the life of many sea creatures. 'Tis the season of catching wild Dungeness in Puget Sound.

Without compassion,

nary any cause to weep,

boiled, broken to eat

For    dversepoets.com   today,  we are visiting the subject of Haibun poetry. First, in prose, a story of a couple of paragraphs. Then, ended with haiku which encapsulates the gist of the  prose. Referring to nature usually, and a more beauteous prose, but this is what came to my mind.