Nowhere to Go
The day was bright, but the light had somewhere else to be.
It fell on one thing only — the white hull of the boat — and left the rest to the dark. The far bank rose thick with bushes that held no light at all. The boatman had crossed. He had arrived.
And there he stayed.
His oar rested in the water, still ready, still willing, but the water offered no direction. The bank was there. The bushes were there. The way forward was not.
Perhaps it was moonlight. Perhaps the hull simply refused to go dark with everything else.
Nowhere to go. And still, the boat stays white.
