The sunshine descends hesitantly, trying to warm the frigid dawn that refuses to be embraced. In obstinacy, fog rolls in, rising off of the glassy turquoise water of the wharf. The foghorn of the ferry strains through the air, declaring the landing of the barge and forewarning small boats that are veiled by the lowered clouds.
Numerous piers jut out from the island, copious arms and legs with small docks protruding off of them like fingers and toes. The piers are held up by stalwart, stilted supports, towering above the harbor waters. The docks ride gently on the constantly swaying water, controlled by tides and winds.
Along the docks lie yachts, fishing boats and commonplace motor boats as if slumbering, ready to awaken at any slight touch – yet they are like chained animals, tied up so they cannot flee, even when awakened. The water slaps at the boats, rocking the animals back and forth and making them angry. The liquid is transparent up close, yet it leaves marks of erosion and algae all along the rock surface of the island as it incessantly cuffs it.
Among the waters Harbor Seals swim and dive, their eyes blinking like cats and their whiskers thick and white. The spots on their backs and a shadow is all that is seen as they float underwater, their heads popping up now and then to stare at the world of the harbor as the fog is finally raised up as the cold morning surrenders to the sun.
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