Perry and Empire

‘Twas but a mist-enshrouded speckle dark-painted on looming horizon. Petty worker holds unwavering watch, silently, stealthily keeps his eyes on. Forward motion undeniable, each passing minute size increasing. Small heart stands alert and viable – beating fast and tremulous; though, never ever ceasing. Moments reveal stark, unyielding visage so confident, assured, and smug; so grand in glory, so traveled, so worldly, laced in comment and compliment, so unlike our humble tug. Steely vessel stays its resolute course – deliverance of goods and fare its compensated victory. Tugboat sighs in the witness of the linear bulk - so heavily adorned in commercial livery. Gull passes low. Crying for what no mind can know, much less announce. A distraction that reminds no one here is tied by moorings, is secured by mounts. A tentative thrust is sputtered into the immensity of the saltwater bay. A test, an assurance of propulsion, some gesture, a semblance in making the smallest of headway. For surely it is his job to steer this myopic, shore-bound lug – a princely assignment for one so parochial as a six-legged bug. The behemoth is nigh, motion slowing, heading stupid; grand in size, demeanor, and experience - with steering as impotent as an arrow-less cupid. Stoic eyes peer down to the struggling, focused underling: “My name is Empire, it is written on my side. Surely, yours is not an important thing.” “You may be mighty and experienced and even handsome in a funny, indefinable way but I was created to assist, and assist I will until my final rust-racked day. For my name is Perry – punctuality is built into my frame. I cannot be influenced by anything more that you may have to say; it is not my game.” Inching forward, making contact head to belly, crown to rigid, cold-steel siding; diesel pistons thrumming, water humming churning to froth, molecules rapidly colliding. The brutal, hundred-ton course once so strong, unyielding, and forthright now bends to the fruit of the effort, to the will of an underdog’s might. Another passing gull cries: “If one were to measure worth, would one count this of the grunty little grit or the aloofness of the steely-blue girth.” Matters not thinks Perry, though he mentions it not out loud: “Of which is more important – The vastness of the ocean or the fragility of a cloud?” For both are compulsory in the sustenance of all living things. To order one the more grand, ‘twould be the silliest of schemings.