Butter, soft and delicious. On a plate from 1920, antique white, the glaze stained by time, and cracking with fine brown lines.
Behind, the Americas Cup. Flying over water…fierce strokes to trim the sail. A dip as the boat tacked, the starboard hull dropping in. And yet they fought desperately. Cruise ship beyond as the horizon hailed. Meticulously planned, each inch known well in advance.
The boat struck a hard pitch, but quickly jumped above, floating above the water on its underwater foils.
The men fly from side to side. Endlessly trying to keep stride. There are well defined targets, and the men know each and every one.
On the side, the men dragged in through the front door, they banter and talk, some business at hand, but none that matters. They laugh. It’s some manner to bond I think.
And the boat continues to sail, floating above the transom, the gunwales. They reconcile, and gather together, preparing for the next juncture.
And the men behind, they talk of numerically, but I doubt they could add two and three.
And yet the boats soar. High on hydrofoils, and somehow translating seven kilometers of wind into flight.
A small boy sits in the arms of Lily. On dialysis three times a week and on deaths door, alone, she relishes in his beautiful perfect young life. But he tires, and grows impatient, wanting mom, or maybe dad.
Today is dad’s day.
And yet the boats sail on. Ever vigilant, the crew has not lost sight of the target. They will yet best this.
John Denver comes over the stereo. I almost cry…Rocky Mountain High. A long way from Colorado, where I was born, now in Connecticut, where I reside. But it brings up the pure feelings of youth, a place we all long to return. A place we can never go. And so the tear in my eye.
And the boats continue to fly. And then they dive. How do they do it this long? I fear I’d have fallen by now. The intensity is so great.
Behind, the Americas Cup. Flying over water…fierce strokes to trim the sail. A dip as the boat tacked, the starboard hull dropping in. And yet they fought desperately. Cruise ship beyond as the horizon hailed. Meticulously planned, each inch known well in advance.
The boat struck a hard pitch, but quickly jumped above, floating above the water on its underwater foils.
The men fly from side to side. Endlessly trying to keep stride. There are well defined targets, and the men know each and every one.
On the side, the men dragged in through the front door, they banter and talk, some business at hand, but none that matters. They laugh. It’s some manner to bond I think.
And the boat continues to sail, floating above the transom, the gunwales. They reconcile, and gather together, preparing for the next juncture.
And the men behind, they talk of numerically, but I doubt they could add two and three.
And yet the boats soar. High on hydrofoils, and somehow translating seven kilometers of wind into flight.
A small boy sits in the arms of Lily. On dialysis three times a week and on deaths door, alone, she relishes in his beautiful perfect young life. But he tires, and grows impatient, wanting mom, or maybe dad.
Today is dad’s day.
And yet the boats sail on. Ever vigilant, the crew has not lost sight of the target. They will yet best this.
John Denver comes over the stereo. I almost cry…Rocky Mountain High. A long way from Colorado, where I was born, now in Connecticut, where I reside. But it brings up the pure feelings of youth, a place we all long to return. A place we can never go. And so the tear in my eye.
And the boats continue to fly. And then they dive. How do they do it this long? I fear I’d have fallen by now. The intensity is so great.
