A little wind, and the waves made noise.
A girl narrated her own game on the shore.
An insect so delicate it stunned the human
Mind to consider that the ancestors of these
Jeweled crystal paper wings and thin black
Appendages never failed, not in a million,
Not in a billion generations and then some,
To survive and produce continuity, strolled
Across a patch of imported grass infested
By paintbrush and dandelions, all also
Descendants of never-failing ancestors.
As were we all, although most of us would
Fail. A crow slid between dock and sun
And the water, accumulated, evaporating,
Accumulating, slapped against the stones
Without itself being alive, crying with life.
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