Even the black is blue. Even the cargo ship, a shrimp or lobster boat or bigger, foreign to me, black-blue against the fog and cerulean water. And the boys and girls running in the water: bruise-glowed, five-fingered outlines paused like bent stars, kicking at the ice-blue froth of water, crouching for a blue-striped beachball. It’s that line in the back, above the water and below the fog that draws my eye—only because the rest of the picture is so blue does this low air appear white. A hollow-lostness white, a pull to something distant, let’s say. Truly it is blue, as wet and deep-evening as the ocean, the sand, the steamer, the beachball, or the boys or the girls or the shine of the picture glossing all their faces to blue. Only my want for contrast invents it white— as when given so much of one good thing my eye searches for the lack.