Blue Soup

Mist covering the horizon so sea and clouds and sky all melt into one. It looks like the boats could carry on up, all the way around, leaving a rippling wake as they cross the setting sun. Days into nights into weeks into months into seasons into years, all blending together in a big old mix, tracks into tracks, the motor turning over and sputtering out a cloud of smoke, exhaling again and again, blue against the black sky until it fades out of view, liquified. It’s all blue soup.