It is almost always raining
in their eyes
when they leave the boats
to form the circle.

They sit on their haunches
and pass the whiskey
in the cold fish-packing plant
until the rain turns to ice.

They are old.
The rain makes their bones ache.
The whiskey loosens the spasms
of their brittle chests.

They speak of the few fish
to be caught in the rain,
of the ice on their hands
of the sons who did not drown

but were found face down in water
thick with pale green plants.
None notices the one who gets up
when his shoulder is tapped.

The circle closes; spit hisses
on the pot-bellied stove.
One wipes his mouth on his sleeve
and speaks of sun on his forehead.