I have seen docks come and go, built up with high hopes
and destroyed in a single storm. And still
the ocean sweeps back and forth and keeps her coves tidy. The docks mean very little to her. The water reflects the greyness of the sky,
or perhaps it is the other way around.
Perhaps the sky reflects the greyness of the water. It is January, after all, and the answer is
not important.
The swollen wood creaks in the current, and there is a
bell clanking in the distance that breaks the howling of the wind. Beginnings are always cold and grey here on
the shore. A gull once told me a lie
about the golden sun. I smiled but I did
not believe him because it was January, and it has always been cold.