By: Mike Turner

I stand upon rough, worn wood deck
Salty tang of sea spray upon my lips
Eying starched white canvas arching aloft against azure skies
Eyes burning and watering from the reflection
Feeling rise and fall of straining hull against rolling waves
Cool kiss of freshening breeze upon my cheek
Thunderous booming of bows crashing through foaming crests
Roiling wake smacking like applause at a symphony’s close
Pointing bowsprit across emerald depths
I steer straight at the orange fireball of the setting sun
To horizon, and beyond
Aiming for the green flash
Knowing that I am bound to where I am meant to be
And am home