I am miles from here, we are miles from anywhere,
Rising high, almost to the stars, then back to earth,
Though earth does not exist in this depression.
I turn and every noise turns with me, inside me,
Rumbling through the essence of my frame.
She is a fine boat and cuts a dash moving into the wind,
Many are anxious to become part of her crew.
So I am lucky. Fortunate to hear these sounds and
taste the fear that she endures without comment.
Perhaps if I too were made of oak I would flourish.