Homing, inshore, from far off-soundings. br Night coming on. Sails barely full. br The wind, br in its dying, too light to lift us against br the long ebb. br My two fingers, light br on the tiller, try to believe I feel br the turned tide. br Hard to tell. Maybe, br as new currents pressure the rudder, br I come to sense br the keel beginning br to shape the flow of the sea. Deep br and aloft, it's close br to dark. br No stars yet. Only the risen nightwind, br as we tack into its warmth, br tells us br we'll make our homeport. Strange, br angling into the dark, br to think br how a mainsail's camber reflects br the arc of the keel, br their dynamics br reversing whenever we tack. br You call from below, br hand up coffee, br check the glow of the compass, and br raise an eye to Arcturus, br just now br beginning to shine. All over again, br all over, our old bodies br breathe br the old mysteries: the long night br still to go, small bow-waves br playing br a little nachtmusik; stars beyond stars br flooding our inmost eyes. br And voices, br now, come out of the dark, br deeply sounding our own.