Last night I dreamt we were mending a net

I'm sitting on an old wooden porch with him, and we're mending the same net, not talking. The moon is up, the tide is out, and every knot I pull tight starts glowing faintly, like a firefly caught in the weave. I keep waiting for one of us to say something, but neither of us does, and somehow that's not awful — it's just what the work sounds like now.