Early, the squid boats hum toward harbor. They are strung with glass bulbs to attract the cephalopods, like islands broken away from a carnival, like metal-hulled anglerfish. All night they have performed their silent, bright barker's call. Now the orbs dim, lost in the depths of the negative darkness of the coming day. At this distance, one cannot hear the squid in their tanks.
The sea turns a powdery green near shore; further out it is the purple of the sound of the pages of a book as it hits the floor. Across the road from the harbor, the town is tacked into the granite cliffs. Roofs of blue plastic tile, the color of the taste of the sky when it is too high and clear to believe. Cement walls, cracked and silent; paper doors. The pale waves come up and gnaw at the jetty beside the road, the harbor mouth. The squid boats labor through the swell, weighed by their catch.
Mayday. The town wakes, and carries bags down the hill to the fish market.
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