Light is on the hills, overhead are seabirds, flying from the sea to land,
beneath are people. They look to the ground, seeing not sunlight on the sand.
In the rivers are fishes, they swim like fire, like fire they're flashing and twisting
as the birds fly. Something about this is moving, sweet and grand
as, on winds, the birds, flying through breezes, turn as streams of water
unlike the fishes. Strange how it seems that there's nothing worthy to stand
and be noticed, and cherished, not bird nor fish, nor hills nor river, not anything.
It seems to me strange, almost as if reckoned, destined, or in a way planned.

-- Phillip A. Ellis ​