From the old fort we watch the traffic in and out the bay mouth, freighter, tanker, windsurfer, sea gull. The restless sailboats use one steady wind to travel on the water every way, crossing and passing, luffing, coming about. The fabric of the wind has never torn, but wind will trick and change, and in response we see sailors trick and change, weaving steadiness of countless variations. We watch them eyeing headland or compass, shifting sails, mastering their own distractions, the tide, the breeze. Their great white sails pull them toward some fixed point on the shore, toward the gladness of arrival, toward gardens of peonies rooted down, their leaves waving in the breeze, but holding their place if not their course.