Like black-shelled turtles emerging from underground tunnels,
they hide their heads from the rain,
scurry to their assigned dry places,
shake off water, disappear – but for one
blue shell that separates to find ocean.
All the rivers run into the sea.
Tributaries, estuaries where fresh meets salt water.
Rivers are always changing, but the cycle
is invariable; all returns to the headwaters.
Man. Water. There is no new thing.
“There is no new thing” – Ecclesiastes 1:7
Heavy the oar to him who’s tired,
lightened by the sunset over the harbor.
Heavy is the saltwatered, rain-watered oilcloth coat,
drying beside the sleeping sailor and fireplace.
Morning’s red sky and heavy the sea.