one

there was, first, a ship.

next was a voyage.

stalking it came a storm,

and it all ended with a cliff.

were it ever the ill fates that befell poor number eighteen!



waves of some disagreeable autumnal storm, heralding winter, crashed into fine shores of a land to the child as unknown as heaven.

it were sodden, that urchin, and half-buried in the sand, fur and edges sticking out, nostrils barely free to inhale. it were unconscious, too, undreaming, grey mist swirling beyond the eyelids.

above the shallow divot, the ribbed trunk rose and fell with labored breathing.