Cliffs In Autumn (Elsah, Illinois)

Moored on an inland sea, their battered hulls patroled by crows (black counterparts of gulls) old vessels ride a crimson tide of oak and sassafras and lift white prows above us as we pass. A mothball fleet anchored in time, past journeys logged in lime; not booked to sail 'til eons from today, the ships await majestically a distant, destined gale. They can afford such patience- only we, checking our watches, hurry on our way.