The color is the grey-green of stagnant water tinted by leaking gas tanks, feral ducks, galley refuse, sliced against the sharp midsummer blue blue blue of a cloudless sky, the rays of the sun unbroken. Sounds of engines idling, water pouring into the next level, metal churning against metal as the ship heaves its way upstream or downstream, the whistles as capacity is reached, the calls from the shore as onlookers assist or idly watch. The feel of palm against metal, cranking the gears to open the locks, the feel of the worn concrete banks which can be reached from either side of the ship, the feel of the tiller as the ship pushes slowly slowly slowly forward. In the air the heavy smell of decaying fish, salt water, gasoline mixes with other scents of barbecue, of beer, of the shore, of birds, and of business.
readingJasper Fforde / Shades of Grey
spiked hot cocoa, crispy bacon, fresh scones, warm hats, hot water bottles, and the bliss of February not being a day longer than 28