Made to depart. Once, my grandmother had nimble hands, faster across piano keys than I could see. They tremble now over teacups. Time is its own kind of fleet, moving through us like we are water.
Mind fleet. Always praises for the swift, the departed, the unanchored. Nobody compliments the anchored. The sluggish. The lingering. But maybe that's the gift, knowing you won't last makes you pay attention.
The fleet moves, catches varied winds, observes a thousand ports. We are all fast. Here shortly passing. The secret is seeing the water while you are still cutting through it, still producing ripples, still heading somewhere you have never been, not staying. Then: vanished. Horizon.fleet.