A rainy southeast gale has kicked up waves in the Sound.
Mist and spume strafe wave and wavelet.
On the deck of the ferry, rain collects.
Across the steel plates of the deck, with each roll of the ship, to and fro, it flows.
In the low spots now basins, water seiches.
On the lee side, under an overhang on the middle deck, is a sheltered place. The open door lets cabin air out. That air is warm, and full of scents from the snack bar. At the edge of the overhang, with each roll of the ferry, a fresh rush of rainwater flows over the rim. Wind seizes the water, shatters the streams into droplets, and hurls them back into the air.
The streams and drops move too fast to focus on. Perhaps the pictures will reveal more.
The camera’s eye is faster than ours, holds the instant, and returns it to us, suspended, for full inspection.
The drops make forms fantastic, forms in which we can see things.
The Purple Mountains.