Tattered Tarps

Stirred by the sound of bubbling crests.
The salt air burns my first conscious breath.
Tattered tarps begin to chatter in the brisk amber morning.
A pair of Iwa birds, slowly emerge from the cliffside, circling and soaring.
I make my way to the waters edge, dragging most of my net behind me,
and scan the sand for anything, the currents left worth finding.