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Barn swallows tilt down the blade of the wind to match the ship neck for neck. She’s quick as a dare, so sweet and yare, and the spray is a kiss on her deck. Clouds darken with envy. The skies are unfriendly. Earth misses her so hard it aches. Her hull cuts the sine and the sea dark as wine is alive with the thrill of her wake.

There once was a time when these boats (hung with bells) would sing out when they crossed paths. Bells grew obsolete. All they do is compete with the ring of the captain’s laugh.