All was in order in the shack where the window framed a long deserted beach.
Black paper was neatly stacked, two bamboo brushes of fine brown hair rested in a rack alongside a bottle of white ink.
The wind had been increasing for days and though the moon was full, as night closed in we lit a single candle.
The flame flickered nervously.
We watched the lines of waves breaking in bright contrast to the black sea, lines too long for a poem, too complex and seen only in their breaking