Mixte

I was thinking of a ship that had been washed inland by a ferocious storm and came to rest on a boulder with weeds and sunny hillsides lapping about. Occasionally a little bird would land so that the boat pivoted and its bowsprit pointed out towards the ground, then a few random gusts would come along and the boat would once again tip skyward.

I used to think the ship would dream of surrendering to one side or the other, but I’m settling into the notion of it turning forever.