I’ve come to Bells Neck     to the wooden bridge     over the tidal marsh     for Taschlich

to cast my sins of the past year     into moving water     not sins as much as     omissions

times I’ve missed the mark     the grasses and reeds glow     translucent green

curve around the water     follow their own design     the tidal creek a few shades bluer

than the sky     covered with a thick blanket of ripples     I stand inside a blue and green

relief map of the world     a small oval cloud wispy on top     stamped three times in one

corner of the sky

I’d hoped for solitude but     a man climbs up rocks at water’s edge     carries a kayak

sideways into truck-bed     returns to capture the cordgrass     with telephoto lens

Another swings two long-handled nets     runs from rocks     to each end of the bridge

scans shallow water     scoops up a large blue crab     flips it into the other net

joining two others     clawing with gusto     grabbing like vice-grips     onto anything they can

A father and young child arrive     look briefly for crabs and     (not seeing any)     leave

An older couple strolls across the bridge     stops partway     continues across

and down the road

I stand mid-bridge     face into the steady gust that     polishes my skin     surrounds me

a buffer of rushing sound     I toss my rolled-up balls     of stale bread     one by one

long pauses in between     focus on where I’ve fallen short and     what I might do better

or differently next year     every year it seems like I    

repeat the same list

Two kayaks emerge     from saltgrass up ahead     round the bend     head towards the bridge

“Can you get under it?" one kayaker shouts    over the wind     “Yes, I think so” the other yells back

I call to them from above     as they approach     “Beautiful day!     Is the tide coming in?”

“No, it’s going out”     I hold my bread until

they pass underneath

I’m almost done     with my bread at least     my bread sins form a dotted line

in the middle of the water     where the current is strongest     one seagull

appears high above     glides back and forth a few times     swoops down

A second and a third arrive     hover     frozen in place     within airstreams

then dive for each fraying piece of dough     “They’re eating my sins” I think

“what bad birds they’ll become!”     or maybe     they’ll transform them

into something good

wind pushes surface one way

stubborn tide pulls the other

the current always knows     which way to go