The Christening

A hazy early morning, the sky in oranges
and yellows, all blurred together. Flat like a
mirror, crystalized and clear, the water stays. Rows
of boats stacked, in two separate worlds, sit
waiting for their captains to leave the docks.

It could be Italy, Argentina, or France, possibly.
Don’t you see the masts? There are none.
Slim, long gray lines, barely on the page, position
ships against black, no purple, mountains, along the
lakesides shore. Do you know this place well?

Time is frozen here. A yellow light glows
dimly from within a nearby yacht, but no
face peers from the window. Lined up as
schoolchildren, each in their place, bobbing with the
tide as it flows in, then later, out.

Take the virgin to sea! A bottle of
champagne upon the bow, red vests hanging in
the galley. The grasses dotting the sand hills
sway with the breeze and a gull calls
out before snatching the fish from the wire.