“Sligro,” my girlfriend says out of the blue when she strokes her knife over the herb butter. It is a warm summer evening, and we are at the restaurant De Waterraaf in the marina of Nauerna, a village that connects Zaanstad with the North Sea canal. We have reserved a table outside on the terrace, with a view of water, boats, and grebes. There is no wind, and the water is a mirror. My mind wanders. In my head, sentences form a poem.GA VERDER