The Log

You open the Log. Blue ink, ruled columns, the hands changing by the page.

The weather comes first, every day. Fog. Fog. Fog, lifting at four. Wind from the northeast, as usual. Lit at dusk. Out at dawn. Kettle on. And in hand after hand, the gull on the rail, who has been here longer than the one writing.

Between the weather are the wrecks, one to a page, the saved down the left side and the lost down the right.

Six pages have a slip of cream stock in them. The slips are not in the order of the years.