Writing is Like Fishing, Which is Like Love
The waves keep coming and going. Cormorants and terns. Too many to make a moment of. A heron steps like a feathered model from one pose to the next. A white boat tiny in the distance. I’m looking observant but not seeing much. Can’t smell a thing. Feel the sun sliding down my back, my head poking into dusk. I wait until dark hoping something will sneak up on me.
moonlight all the fish lost at sea