Sharks

That night, again, the sharks that lurked here in deep waters moved under me. Obsidian fins cut pretty wakes into the surface. If I peered over the edge of my houseboat as the waves tossed it, the sharks’ jet bodies passed back and forth.

Storms and summer swells had shaken the paintings off my walls, and I hadn’t been to shore in a long time, so I had no supplies to repair the shattered glass, or fix the frames securely to the walls.

I spent dusk walking a circuit from my dry interior room out to the railings, around the edges, watching the sharks. Fascinated. Terrified.

Did they know I was there? Did they care? Did I want them to?

Clouds hid even starlight, until the world was flat black. I felt my way back inside to my bed. I left a small light burning, a talisman in case sharks were to steal into my room during the night.

I dreamt that night of fireflies, honeysuckle, pebbles gleaming in riverbeds.

Simplicity. Clarity. Style.