6/8/17. little boat

The wind sighed in its haste to send them back to the ship, and the little boat eased along frustratingly slowly. It began to whistle through its planks, so Jane began to whistle too, in what she hoped was an encouraging tone but which fell flat over the screams of the waves.
Angrily, she sent her fist into the prow, but the boat simply groaned and pushed on at the same pace. She could see the cloud clearly now, in all of its dark, austere quality. It rolled over itself, flipping and tumbling through the air in shots of charcoal air tangling so quickly and seamlessly together that at times it all seemed one woven grey cloth. Even the intense focus the crisis offered her could not withstand the impulse she had to simplify the distended gale to one mass: she found her eyes refusing to acknowledge its distinct flurries and shook her head. She wanted to take it all in, that storm which would take her.

Jane began to think that she had never before been witness to so accurate a visual of the word “ominous” or of the word “beautiful.” She sat back in the boat and watched the water steal itself toward her over the wood. Her fingers fell to the boards, and the black mass crept slowly towards them where they lay extended. Where it met splinters she sighed and the wind sighed into her ears, whisking her hair to its farthest reach from her scalp.

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