Waiting here for mom, sitting on the boat, masts, water, dock, our view at home. My mother is in view, she makes the boat home.
The dry rub of gravel, the slow creak of ropes. The piercing cry of birds, the soft splish of the ocean, the loud quack of ducks.
The scent of a salty ocean, pumpkins cooking strong and thick. Fallen leaves rotting to join the sun and the food.
The dark, the night, nothing left but the hoot of an owl and that too soon to vanish for dawn.