When you wake up at anchor and it's before sunrise, and thunder heads blackout traces
of early dawn light, reach up from the horizon, stretch over the sky, and curve out the morning.
Block out the stars as the city lights blend with the lights of other ships pinned in place
on the water, barely breathing on calm seas, and objects in motion tend to stay in motion,
and objects at rest tend to stay at rest, and restlessness will move you to count off the
calendar and dream about home and release, while walking empty handed down the deck,
like Cesar Fisco, and get the rock again, setting up for another day of toil under the sun,
in a purple August heat, called from Mexico, waiting for the bells.
