In the azure distance sails a boat
with one triangle sail,
bowing east, heading east.

Her going is unnoticed by those practicing yoga,
spinning frisbees, balancing on purple slack-lines
at this grassy knoll at the base of the volcano.

I cannot take my eyes off her,
so sure of herself, so pointed—
something so certain of direction deserves applause.

Everything about her is heading eastward—
in fixed gaze she steady plows towards sunrise,
triangle sails pointing triangle fingers.

I watch as foaming, desperate south shore waves
gargle at port and starboard, watch as winds toss
the hair of her cabin crew, watch as she bows to no distraction.

How does she make the ocean seam unified;
a quilt unbroken, even amongst waves?

She’s perfect, stretching, endlessness—!

All the sinews of my stressed veins are tight and caged,
and I strain to watch her perfect direction.
Ashamed of humanity, I long to be her,
so straight, so pointing, so sure.

But what if this is but a still moment
in her perfection? What if she rounds the corner
and is swept by currents,
heralded by trade winds,
strained under tide?

No, she does not control the ocean.

She may be great, but she is a guest.
A watcher. Taking advantage of moments of stillness
to make direction.

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