Under the three bays, a billion particles stir lightless, a cool upwelling and plankton like dark moons. A woman looks out at one of the bays from a dock. In this bay, blue and rust container ships float past. She thinks of independent movement, flagella. Atoms behaving wildly at absolute zero. And whales. Back home there was a lake surrounded by conifers. Ancient monies and love letters anchored in its bottom. She would hug its edges with her naked arms, let her hair spread like a hand on its surface. Years ago she had been an overseas bride, had rubbed her cheeks with lipstick for the photos and stood in a certain light. Her new husband was not disappointed. He twirled her at the airport, then took her to buy furniture. His letters said he needed someone to watch him sleep, make sure his lungs didn’t collapse a third time. She would massage his shoulders with baby lotion, warm herbal tea in the microwave, remind him not to walk too fast to the subway platform at rush hour. That first Christmas, the wife sent packages by parcel post to her daughter and cried on the phone. Her daughter whispered songs into the receiver. Now the husband sleeps all day in a broken recliner. And her daughter steps around their living room in a nightgown and complains about the volume of the television. The wife has old habits now, walks at night, watching cranes loading freight in the water, the silver booms of coal and wheat running through her.