The tall striped man-pole, with long wooden fingers,
Played no music sweet on a keyboard of air,
And the distant gray clouds slowly drifted right through him,
Going southwestward across the red sun,

The green and blue of the transparent ocean,
Rose swiftly to fuse with the imperfect sky,
And the red, and the gold, and the purple-skinned fishes,
Ignored us completely, and slipped right on by.

The sand on the shore was uninterrupted,
The waters were peacefully still and asleep.
Creation was dormant in intricate beauty;
The spirit had moved on the face of the deep.