The sound of ships, great and small.
Cleaving the water, that dances with the suns last sparks.
Twilight comes, but passes so quickly, like a final kiss from a lover that has betrayed you.
Foghorns sound, bellow, roar. Then are swallowed by the crickets and the now oily dark water plunking against the rocks.
My skin grows cold, sweat dries then cools against me.
All this water. All this sky.
The ships horn plays in the distance.