TURNING A BATTLESHIP

They say it’s like turning a battleship. They say they’re making progress: the vast bulk of iron against the swell that rises and rises and against the wind that never, ever, for a moment, lets up. All hands are doing what sailors do– –turning cranks, watching dials, running to and fro. It was more obvious when the ships were under sail, when it had to do with lowering and raising, with ropes and anchors and chains. Like turning a battleship, they say. Something that big, pounding along in a fixed direction, thousands of tons afloat inflexible, ungraceful, lumbering, loud, not like, say, whales, who turn their enormity graceful and swiftly, who breach and sing and whisper and fly– and porpoises– and kayaks, currochs, dugouts, sailboards and surfboards skimming and slipping the surface– and leaves in autumn– russet from the ash trees, red from the maple, brown from the oak– and golden birch leaves– how they blow light and high, following every whisp of wind– and ravens somersaulting–and hawks– and little birds flipping so easy above the corn– and snowflakes and snowboarders and children on swings and monkey-bars– and ballerinas, gymnasts, contra-dancers, parachutists, politicians, bass guitarists– and all those World Cup footballers turning on a dime.