Sixteen hours as the crow flies, between farmland and sea. The wind whistles through open windows muffling radio news, sing-along, conversation. The engine purrs as it gulps down the miles. There are no thoughts to turn back, the coming shadow hovering outside the periphery. Their souls leave no breadcrumbs between here and water.
Red sky at night. Red sky in the morning.
A boat ride at sunset—we would have warned them. We could have pulled them back, before that barrel-chest, those gun-ship arms, before their luggage was all that remained.
Red sky at night. Red sky in the morning.
On the farm, a man leans back in his recliner, thinks of his girls strolling seashores for seashells, the hotel pool deck―cokes and postcards. A few more days, they would return with sunburns and souvenirs.
Two watch as one is bound, weighted down with stone, thrown over the scratch of blue and white paint to the sea—alive. One watches as the second enters the water, as the one before her. There is time for the third to understand as the light at the farm turns off and she goes over.
Red sky at night. A sailor’s warning.
