And after a mont' of fishing from a dory, every morning picking up some ice from out of the water at the side of the ice-berg that was foundered there, so we could keep our fish cool, I began to write of this awesome glacial creature.  The poem doesn't tell of spearing flatfish in the shallows, nor does it speak of waiting patiently while a school of several hundred flue-fin tuna fish swam ever closer to us, dove beneath our dory and went on their way. But it is born of just this magnitude of life.  It doesn't tell of getting drunk so we could stand the freezing temperature of the water as we waded in to pick a garbage can of fresh horse-muscles; nor of Jim's father, Alonze, relating to us how he was in a dory shooting ducks and Newfoundland Turrs when his father shot one of the last Boethiuk Indians from off the overhanging face of stone along the shoreline of the bay.  But, it is in some way a reflection of this sort of reality ... at once real and sur-real.