The Harbor

  White, wooden, sunlit masts stand great and tall, like wise old sea-men remembering and recounting whaling battles of their exciting youth. Ships rock back and forth, softly calming and creakily singing to their warm cargo as a mother does her newborn child. The bleached seagulls fly, quietly chattering amongst themselves as though spreading great bird gossip, looking down and fixing their appearances in the glassy, mirror-like water below them. 

  The sea eavesdrops on conversations, and I, listening carefully, can hear the soft scratching of their quills as they document the events overheard, and watch as the frothy overflow of their white ink peaks at the crests of waves. The ocean strains, reaching closer and closer towards the hot, sandy ground, longing to hear more tales concerning the world of land. Sipping my bubbly, brown coffee, content with the magnitude of the beauty I have observed, I return to my beckoning lunch.