Fox hears the world whispered from a shell strewn by an old sea, 
 leans toward it listening
 the way dreaming folds down the hard corners, imagining
 to be a stream and have more than one lifetime to fail
 and begin again, escape catastrophe just by bending,
 how the wind sings even in its rages
 or how the night appears and disappears sucked into each hollow,
 those sweet places beating slight movements
 over and over, resisting regrets,
 leans toward a whispering shell that sings—
 this is the sound of waters coursing to the sea
 the sound of creation unfolding into morning.