Flourishing Current
Give them a branch to cling to and cling they will.
Cling they must, for pities sake. In all that rushing about, searching for perishables that are no longer there. Docked in the ports, and in the pews, the fish rise and fall. On the horizon, curled and muted, the chopping waves crest. Salt water, when sprayed through the nostrils, rubbed in the eyes, is severe. When swallowed, is scurrilous. When deeply inhaled, is deafening. And in the ears its oceans withdraw. Too steeping to consider, really. The all sinking and sweeping away.
