Is it the ship that’s moving or the sea that’s moving, the tide flowing against the ship? The clouds are moving too. The mountaintops are capped with snow, capped by clouds, the whitecaps and the clouds driven by winds, each to its pace. The ship is anchored out at sea. It is more like a flower, a bright yellow flower with large layered petals and a giant head swaying on small green stalk, than a cargo barge with three smokestacks and a string of bright white lights between, the ship painted rust and dun. A passenger jet crosses the mountain range, too high to be heard. And the ship’s too far to hear the song that someone must be playing in the break room, the men drinking Turkish tea, biting into fresh hot rolls with chewy cheese bubbling inside. Someone is waving at the ship from the airplane, a child. Let’s say the men wave back.