We stream on color: blue, aquamarine,
dove grey. To look straight down gives vertigo,
but farther out the surface seems serene,
both concentration and reflective flow.
Horizons offer us expanse—confine
us, also. Every wavelet, though unique,
resembles all. The latitudes decline;
there’s almost no dusk, southward. In a week,
we’ll sail past the equator; Capricorn
lies next. —Around us, vast capacity,
dark mouths of nothingness! The old god’s horn
still sounds somewhere, perhaps, beneath the sea.