She is awakened before dawn by the sparrows,
not the symphony of song she hears in the forest
but the clicking of claws on the fiberglass overhead.
She rolls over, on vacation, closes her eyes.
Ripples drum steadily against the hull
as fishing boats motor toward the channel.
Dawn’s light peers through ports and she is awake.
Out of bed. Turns on the coffeepot and opens
the sliding hatch to the morning’s stories.
Three ducks glide past the stern, pause, move on.
A fish lunges, breaks the surface, disappears.
A tapping under water near the closest piling
is a puzzle. Both shrug. Watch the seagulls.
He tells her drinking coffee in the cockpit together
is a favorite time of the day. She agrees.
The forecast calls for wind in the face. Whitecaps.
He pulls out a book; she, her journal and pen.
Both are asleep before noon.
Tomorrow they’ll sail out the channel and head north.
Or maybe they’ll stay another day.
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