Between Boats     On still mornings conversations coasted over the flats of Barnegat Bay. Each ship was still as a phone with no number, like a voice of sails or a lightship by day. No matter how close we were the words would sink between us.   By afternoon the wind would scramble everyone’s voice like a fistful of dice. O what we rode over home— the outboard skipping us across light chop, answers too deep to pick up.     - George Bishop