By: Garland Davis
The moon hangs over the dark sea,
To starboard, dark shadow moves, the carrier.
The wake streams out astern, glittering from the disturbance.
Peering to port and starboard, I note the positions within the Battle Group.
The smell of stack gas and the feel of salt spray.
Solitude as flying fish flee something unseen.
Waiting in the midnight for the watch to end.