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Holly Willis

Bodies of Water

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In the afternoons of summer, the water on the west side of the island moves south, pushed by the river that surges into the bay. The sun glistens like diamonds, and the small waves rush past, sometimes billowing up with plush lips of white curling over their tops.

In the afternoon on the west side of the city on the other side of the country, in fall and winter, the wind almost always moves from the ocean across land, from the west. The water in the marina slips by in small furrows, billowing with tender crests, or flickering nervous lines of light.

These waves come from both places but I can’t remember which is which.

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