The pines moan when the wind passes
sands of the beach warms to the beat of the sun
Ghost-like ships stroll at the edge of the world
Crusted with salt and brilliant as fishes
White birds of the ocean
Guide themselves in the air
drop into the blue
Their bodies taken by space.
Small hands shape lone hills and sleeping valleys
the waves take their stories away.
And an ancient nostalgia of being a mast
sways in the pines.