On the cape of the island, you could grab the plate-sized crabs with your bare hands.
A little wading in the surf and you’d walk back out with enough to feed communities.
Of gulls and herons.
Of bears and men.
Crabs don’t come to the hand as quick anymore.
Most things don’t.
I’ll watch them sometimes, the ones who wade out and the ones who take a full operation out on the water.
Every year they come back with less for their efforts.
The crabs come and go.
So do the strangers who take their catch and leave.
The communities stay.
I think a lot about the way the shape of the north changes… and the way it remains the same.