Do you know of the river, dear?

The slosh and strand of crisp?

Grandeur; Variety

But you know

Feet cooling down on the bank

Here am I
Making chowder with the fruit of my labor

Shimmery scales

Sandy shells in piles on the threshing counter

Do not

Suppose I am a grizzled fisherman

Sailing indifferently through the mist

A sailor is picturesque

Not I

I just like chowder