by Clare McTighe

The rolled, fraying paper
barely fit into the bottle.
A thin layer of morning fog
covered
glass water like a blanket,
so still, that for a moment
I thought it would shatter.
The sun, just waking up,
stretched its arms
over the orange and pink
horizon.
I closed my eyes
and let the salty wind
hug me,
goose bumps rising across my arms.
The ocean’s curled hand beckoned me,
its tiny waves hungry
for the bottle.
I put it into the air,
imaginary wings carrying it higher and higher
until finally, it
plunged,
splashed,
and bobbed toward
some mysterious beach,
in some mysterious country,
where maybe,
just maybe,
a stranger would pick it up and read it.

Glass Water

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