Signals

We woke this morning to the sight of a ship on the horizon - 22 miles out.

We lit a fire - the damp, briney wood making our eyes smart and our throats catch but soon enough great billowing clouds of thick white smoke spiralled upwards.

The ship always approaching but getting no larger hung just below the subtlest gradation of blue, demarcating heaven from sea. It waits, halfway between.

It has become clear that they cannot see us or they can but do not care.

The strange, insubstantial calligraphy of our smoke signals lengthened out to meaninglessness by the slow-shifting and unforgiving dome of heaven.

We feel very small.