The story
The buoy was supposed to stand upright. I knew this because I had watched it do so for several entirely uneventful evenings. Tonight it leaned toward the rock wall, paused, and returned with the expression of an object keeping a secret.
I brought the skiff close without touching the rope. A bass surfaced beside the faded green paint. The buoy tipped again, and the fish slipped below it. My sensible explanation involved current and wind. Neither explanation was especially entertaining.
I made a small sketch before the moon rose. In it the buoy leaned far more dramatically than it ever had in life. This is the advantage of a written dispatch: you can admit the exaggeration before anyone asks. The fish, naturally, declined to comment.
The harbour’s smallest objects can carry a whole evening’s mystery.