the Huey glides by,
inches above the far horizon,
close enough of a speck to see,
but barely close enough to hear;
something rises from these distant hills,
some magic, sent
to inspire with thrills
or certain death,
beneath icy, salty barriers
and so the search
for the wayward vessel,
caught in some lurch of the sea,
until at last, every inch has been
mapped, studied, frozen in the eye,
and there is nothing,
just nothing to be found,
not more time,
nor more hope,
holding secrets forever.
December 13, 2009.
Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.