the sun was going down like the lit wick of a lamp slowly drowning in oil.

we walked slowly towards the shore of the river. at first our faces faded to secret shadows with the dying light of the sun; and then, as we approached the torch lights on the drifting fishing boats, the contours of our expressions were gilded in orange and gold.

i glanced at her briefly in that light, saw the fire of the still distant torches arc through the horizon of her pupils like the sun behind glass marbles. her lips, so pale and anemic in the dead daylight, looked dark and full and glossy, parted slightly as though building up secrets to whisper to me.

on the water, the fishing boats drifted closer. the black-clad fishermen held torches and the gathered nooses around the necks of cormorants. the slick-feathered birds dove into the shimmering water to feed the hunger of their bellies, only to choke with their wriggling meals bare inches in their throats; a fisherman pulled a noose tight, and deftly snatched the prey from gasping beak, leaving but a taste of a promise of satisfaction. and then, the bird was released, left to play the game of catch and release once again.