defenses impenetrable as you do not know them as defenses

this Summer you don’t do anything. you don’t go anywhere. you don’t talk to anyone.

the docks are strewn with broken shells. mostly mussels. the mussels shine purple and black in wet clusters on the pilings that keep the dock floating yet tethered. grounded on water.

when the tide is down the dock slides down with it. the sliding water, the sliding dock. the exposure of piling. the blue black purple mussels fixed to the pilings. the small black birds gather and pick the shells from the pilings. they flutter up a few feet above the dock, above the decks of dock-tied boats. the small black birds drop the shells, convincing a small crack into them. they wedge their beaks into the small cracks, offer them further convincing, convince them to show them their softness.

the small black birds yell at each other. they perch on railings of boats and yell. they flutter and bounce down to dock and yell. they lightly attack each other, trying to steal each others broken shells. yelling.

you don’t do anything. you mostly lay in your boat. you mostly listen to birds yelling. listen to birds dropping shells. on the deck. on the dock. you mostly listen to skittering sound of birds landing on your boat. walking on your boat. cajoling shells into softness on your boat.

you do not go into mountains. you do not talk to anyone. you cannot keep track of the days.

you do make yourself tea. you do sometimes spray magnesium chloride mixed with distilled water onto your skin. onto the soles of your dry and cracked feet. you hope this will help you sleep. you hope this will help you wake up.

you do not do anything. you lay on your boat. you listen to the sound of water sloshing all around you. you listen to chirp and moan of ropes that fix you to your place on dock. you notice the smell of sulfur from the old plastic pipes that shunt supposedly-potable water around the innards of your boat.

you do not do anything. in the morning you have to leave. sometimes you do not leave. sometimes you are able to. you have to leave and sometimes you are able to.

you notice an old woman walking stiffly with a yellow dog. she holds the dog tight to her side with a leash. the dog is always pulling slightly against her. the dog is always looking for a little more space to move. she fixes a smile on her face. she says good morning to all that she passes. she holds the dog tightly to her side. she tries to control what she can.

you need to leave in the morning but you aren’t always able. mostly you are able to do mostly nothing. you leave sometimes and walk over a bridge. in the water below the bridge you see a dead fish floating. it’s belly glows white as it turns to the sky. the sky is clear and it is drooling thickly with cloud. the clouds do nothing to take from the fish its glow. the clouds do nothing to take from the fish its glow.