floating in the night over waves breaking toward a beach and there is a tree line and the faces of the islanders are looking back and they cannot get to me and I cannot move and their faces have contorted into grins of demons in waiting and I know they’ve never seen their own reflection and they’re waiting for something and I think they know what but I cannot see it and their faces return to normal as the light slowly rises over the horizon and they fade back into the trees and in the pale blue pink distance I can see the mast of a ship begin to slowly turn this way as