I am painting and pick up my brushes. The world is precise. I sit in the house and watch through the wall door window out into the garden. And the wind blows, leaves falling. Out at sea a ship with mast full rigged and white sails billowing sails into the harbor.
Butterfly stands at the edge of the garden at the cliff edge and stares out to sea.
Her eyes intent and watching the ship. The coming ship. And she moves precisely. The brush in my hand is wood, and my hand is a hand, except in places there are rivets. Like there are along other places.