Harbor Porpoise

Off what Thornbjörg calls the stern, or what I refer to as where you look upon the place you cannot return, one broke on through. With little purpose but to tease, eye our sound ship, or take leave of the dog whistle our prop pitches ineptly into the eerie. Suturing the path to where it was bound, it hung split seconds in a realm unsoundable by its sonar. If only we could enter our dreams thus. The cruise ship’s marriage counselor spoke to me in Norwegian, and I agreed, knowing there was only so much she could have said as it took the sun—and unlike beach stones once you get them home, kept its sodden hue going black into sea.