He walks on ice. A tall dark figure and his familiar cadence. 3 long strides, 7 small steps. Every morning at 7 o’clock without fail there he is. 3 long strides, 7 small steps. Never breaking the pattern not as the day grows longer. Not as the Texaco Wisconsin looms behind him. A daunting dark, shape just off his left vision. Does he know of the Texaco Wisconsin? I’ll never know. I have never stopped this ship to ask him.

The Texaco soldiers on its path. As the man walks in between the thin leveless trees. The result of some artic phenomena, I am sure. I stare, in pensive thought towards the monotonous view of winter white ice, as the Texaco Wisconsin continues its tedious journey onward. Who is the man? Why is he here? Where is he going? Thoughts cloud my mind. However, I’ll never know. I have never stopped this ship to ask him. And I never will.