The bronze bells were often seen but hardly ever heard
We rowed on through, propelled by muscular memory.
In the heart of the sea, there was said to be sliver of land. There amongst the bay of blue, shifting caverns were carved on through by the bust of our boat and the breath of the wind.
The water would lap against all the edges, just as the
clouds might flirt with a crescent moon.
Our ores were snug between fingers and palms but hardly seemed to be what swung into the fluid surface.
And the shifts between air and water were of something far stranger; near crystalline.
But the day was young. The title well rehearsed; something that silence had returned to you and I.
Tennae Maki is a weekend writer that works for an architecture firm.