By the sad twisting strings of some glowing sky beams
a boy pilots his craft through a delta of streams.
He weaves a small rudder between select waves,
and sends handfuls of stones to their silvery graves.
Looking down to the bed, he glimpses sand sift,
a darting of shadows, a mellowy shift.
The green yellow waters make fine patterns of gold
and whatever moved hides behind boulders of bold.
His curious nature leans his head overboard
and fast playful crests lick their childish lord.
Small simple fingers dip down to the flow -
the waters push past them to where waters go -
his palms follow suit, and his elbows and arms,
and he strains half his body to the coral so calm.
He fishes around for an object to mold,
and his hands wrap around a peculiar hold.
It wriggles around, and it tries to escape
from the powerful claws that are wrenching its shape.
But its master has won and the surface awaits:
the boy's face is rippled by the waves it creates.
He brings the small monster right up to his eyes -
it twists to the babble to say its goodbyes -
but benevolent forces look down on the thing
and the boy hurls the creature back into the spring.
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