sail ovenbird My soul has miles of rocky shoreline, inhospitable, I've been told. Too unpredictable, ragged, wound through with whirlpools, frequented by Portuguese man o’ war. There's no safe harbour, they tell me. I'm marked by a hazard buoy. I'm all breakers and shoals and turbulence. No ships dare approach, even on a day with the clearest sky, the calmest winds. I've spent my life illustrating the map of my edges, leaving copies in prominent places, wishing for sailors brave enough to risk a wreck on my banks. I'll show you all the inlets, all the sheltered bays. There's something like a paradise here. Pristine. There are things no one has ever seen. All wild and ripe and waiting. 260318 what's it to you? who go blather from