The arrow spins around atop the
Lighthouse point-
Waves crash and the green is like the color on a irish morning
"Who is to desern the wind......
the crow feathers stretch across her pointer and the she forgets to stop at any direction
Birds begin the praise of the morning
For even they know
"A greater than solomon is here......
And the moon isn't far behind, I leave it as I walk uphill towards the east- as I know not to keep my eyes on what will soon disappear-and the waiting, is breath taking....