The story
It feels like a walk along a river that could not decide if it was fog or water. A heron stood in the shallows like it had been hired to wait.
The blue went on too long. A white drip escaped down one side and landed in the same shape as the foam under the bird. Firing locked the mistake in place.
It is a watcher’s mug. Wide enough for a long coffee, quiet enough for a dock that has not opened yet.



