The ocean climbs the beach in search of salt.
It chases off the piper. It licks away
The driftwood. Mulling over his latest fault,

The cattle carry their birds out from under
The tresses of the willow tree, past
The Ancient Ship and into the blooming pond.

Already, the moon. What wouldn’t come with such
A moon? Invisible stars foretell
The precious night. What wouldn’t come, as bees