Last night, as I was running through town by the harbour, I stopped abruptly at an arresting sight. A colossal ocean tanker, larger than many apartment complexes, was moving slowly upriver from out the harbour. Its enormous rusted, battle-scarred sides spoke of many adventures at sea. The sectioned bridge was raised up to its very highest level to allow the tremendous height to pass through. A little tug, attached to its side like a leech and apparently mirrored by another on the other side, was moving the tanker, its engines silenced, up the river. A tiny man in an orange safety vest crawled about on the massive deck.
The ship slid silently under the bridge and up the river like a dream, out to the ocean again and some new destination. The short, wailing siren of the bridge sounded to alert of its lowering. Out to the East, the full moon was rising serenely from a swathe of pearly-pink clouds. All was well with the world. I turned and ran on into the gathering night.