Spool of the Atlantic

At the stern, the reel turns like a planet, unspooling a thin blue vein into the dark. A gull pinwheels once and leaves the frame; the sea closes its lid without a sound.

Down there, the cable settles in silt as if it has always belonged to the floor. Anemones bow, crabs rehearse their slow red hymns, pressure writes its calm signature on every inch.

Inside the glass, light runs its errands— laughter, a dispute, the hush of late apologies, storm forecasts and lullabies for a faraway child, all braided into a swift, invisible braid.

When a storm chews the surface, engineers listen to the line's small tremors like a distant pulse. We are a shoreline of devices, awake in the night, held together by a thread the ocean keeps.