Blue so deep you feel you could drown if you stared too long. Not like Westbrook Bay. Grey, brown, muddy brown, muddy grey. Sometimes, on sunny quiet days it’s green and nice. Rarely, perhaps once or twice a year, inviting.
The small birds descended, in their hundreds onto the busy working deck. Sparrows in the main but some finches too, and, some tiny exotics. We are 70 miles from land and the wind is strong and pushing them away from it. We are their last hope then, us or death.
The giant carousel laden with subsea umbilical turns, ceaselessly. Orange clad men, reflective tape at queer angles, dash about the deck highlighted in the harsh electric faux-day. The tiny feathered things are confused and panicked and weary.
We eat like stuffed Kings at a banquet yet there is no food for the arrivals, no water, no rest, no haven. The fluttering diminishes as the days pass. The numbers lessen, as does the attention paid by the unwilling observers.
Today, at first, just one then not long after, none.