November Blue Point

Well it’s peaceful, a lot of water

The setting sun falls on the lens of the bay, putting yellow under the waves. Boats, white flecks, drift out onto the water, leaving trails in their wakes, the sun shining off of their sides. Behind the strip of land is speckled with houses and the skinny faint poles of masts in the docks. Yellow-blue sits upon the bare branches, then fades to lighter and lighter shades.

Tufts of waves, sliding blue and silver triangles, rinse over one another like tiles and strike the clay-brown sands. Refluent, the waves peel backwards over the reflection of the dock pilings and, rolled over by incoming waves, crash against the shore again.

Dappled November sun falls against the grooved guardrail, and the parking lot is a square of asphalt with white lines.

From its place in the reeds a mallard duck shoots into the sky, stretching green feathers over the bay, flapping the brown wings of its bottle shaped body. The setting sun, golden in the right sideview mirror, is setting above the graygold reeds.

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