At anchor, evening After Wei Ying-wu Late in the day I find a sheltered cove and drop the main and flake it on the boom. Anchor safely down, jib tied to the rail, I watch the distant lights of people going home, one eye on the late breeze. The hills darken. The water is glassy. Light fades. The sea birds are flying to the island. At midnight I think of you in the north. It tolls like a bell between me and sleep.
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