The people down by the docks stride on
the walkways like the pelican, that dips
below the orange sky to balance his hunger.

They jive in hushed dialogue about who wears
what and the 'no hitter' on Sunday. They squander
salt water taffy, and address each peculiar personality
endemic to the boats:

That one's abaft is all wrong.
This one here has an awkward bow.
That one's sails are just lovely.

The balmy sea air performs ballet among
the visitors, swashing its guts and soul
all about the surroundings. The aquatic land's
salty zest is candy for the nose, only making the
taffy taste even better.

A faraway buoy bellows its song, ringing the ocean's
currents. A lonesome seagull rests upon its head and
is lulled to sleep by the gentle waves.

The people down by the docks walk upon wooden
links or shell-covered pathways. Their shoes are
no concern to them. Some of them even wear no shoes.
A whole lot of them grow quiet, as the sun descends into
the waterfront, showcasing shadows in the deep, and
green milk across the sea.

The warm summer winds flutter underneath willow trees
and hammocks, and the clouds erupt into larger and darker
puffs, creating the night sky.

As the people down by the docks retire to their Victorian abodes,
and clink their glasses of iced tea, the harbor continues to perform.