Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or br some northerly harbor of Labrador, br before he became a schoolteacher br a great-uncle painted a big picture. br br Receding for miles on either side br into a flushed, still sky br are overhanging pale blue cliffs br hundreds of feet high, br br their bases fretted by little arches, br the entrances to caves br running in along the level of a bay br masked by perfect waves. br br On the middle of that quiet floor br sits a fleet of small black ships, br square-rigged, sails furled, motionless, br their spars like burnt match-sticks. br br And high above them, over the tall cliffs' br semi-translucent ranks, br are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds br hanging in n's in banks. br br One can hear their crying, crying, br the only sound there is br except for occasional sizhine br as a large aquatic animal breathes. br br In the pink light br the small red sun goes rolling, rolling, br round and round and round at the same height br in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling, br br while the ships consider it. br Apparently they have reached their destination. br It would be hard to say what brought them there, br commerce or contemplation.