Within the movement,
the lifting and falling
the wind's low tremble,
the waves are
sculpted, patted, stretched,
flattened
to the long, sprawling curve
of the earth,
and if you look far enough
you can see the stillness,
the place where the water
plunges to an impossible blue
so dark it fades into itself,
that long stripe
leading into the horizon,
perhaps it, too, is the sky
or a slab of granite,
polished and warm in the sun,
made darker
by the turquoise band
that plunges, there,
the kind, ocean abyss.