The Sky Above, The Land Below

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Keel high, our hull scrapes at the edges of the curtained sky. Barnacles ask why they’re in the spotlight. I sigh, put my back into spinnaker hoisting and know I will feel strained muscles tomorrow. Sweeping the ocean’s bed clean, cloud puffed sheets fall like parachutes and land dream-ridden on a pointed toe.
Tiller firm, we pirouette beneath dark skies, eyes fixed on the far shore.
Narrowed to cut the glare, our horizontal course intersects an oblique sunbeam. “Fingers of God” from above salute us. I still don’t understand what draws him to touch this dancing vessel beneath hole-riddled skies.

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