It is night, frigid. A brook flows through the forest. Amid straight-ceilinged constructions, amid timber, rises a spired building, a residence. At a point on the brook is a gorge. A captain lives in this residence.
Foliage loads the gorge, molds it into the form of a booth, of a throne.
Inside this suite, a ditch. Iron cribs, girdling nautical equipment, encircle it. The oarsman abandons his oars his boat the pond for shore. Mid-ditch the captain reclines, stiffens into her furniture. In her grip a tiller.