There are lazy sounds that are coming one at a time to me. As if these sounds rose slowly from the underworld. Or they would have crossed a remote distance before ringing, a tintinnabulation that fades out to come back higher after a few moments to drift again into silence. Flags and rags --both at the sailboat and fishing trawler fleet-- keep gently awaiting the offshore breeze.
There are backfires from a diesel motor that comes rough, and afterward, it goes away, followed by an aquatic gurgle and an anchor drop. A fish auction voice comes amplified and sings breathless numbers down.
Outside the breakwaters, a big blue giant is swaying tons of waves until they shatter against the rocks with a blow that carries a rolling thunder-distant echo.
I watch reflections in the water like quicksilver spilled. The sky appears in the middle of a roadstead, just a picture that floats. First is the color of infinite sadness. And then, shapes of sunset clouds flowing westbound.
The breeze flow is dim over the face of the waters and draws enigmatic forms. Fading tongues of fire from the depth, wings of a flock of seagulls flying and floating fish scales.
In the docks, street lamps are lit and flicker by rectilinear stretches. Still, some parts are kept in the shadows. And for thousands, these reflections in the water crawl up to the hulls of the anchored boats. As if they were sailing asleep.