The Sea Hare slips from water-forms,

scribes patterns in sand with ivory shells

and seagull bones to light paths unseen.

She rides the storms on ribbons of kelp,

stalks waves when they covet slivers

of painted wood or steel mirrors for vanity.

She spins, with sea hare skill, tunnels that twist

and shimmer in blue, green, black; sequins

them with plankton glow to guide lost

sailors home to her green-lit halls.

The slow old river soothes to her whispered

challenge; he falls into her web of tricks,

losing each game to give up small swimmers

he would hoard in rooms of woven weed.