At evening the boats crowd towards shore,
The yachtsmen eager for a night of talk
In bars and cafes, weary of the wind.
At dawn they drift back into the harbor
And sail loosely scattered into the bay.
From shore there is nothing more beautiful:
A schooner moves reluctant with the tide,
Sails taut, yet trailing the current,
Hung as if absorbed in meditation;
Or a sloop leaning into the water,
Ropes groaning, skin cracked in salt and sun--
Why does it do battle with the wind?
In winter, white with moonlight
