So, at last, we will cross. Our season presupposes continents, lands of desire.We toss like unloved baggage where we stand, and slowly the land gives over. Goodbye; goodbye. The water rises and hisses; distance simplifies trees, houses.The small land speeds. And we escape. Here is your flying sea, proportionless, your seascape hung with birds, your frail launch lightly bearing us in mist. Everything's touch; immediate.We had this journeying at heart; yes, days of it, weeks, buoyant, propelled. The casual waves blur like lines cast back.We have ourselves out here; what else? Birds fail.The sea shines daily, is calm and -- who can tell? -- bottomless.There will be time. And here I awakened into fear -- a destination, as your own; an inlet, where the waters shine in welcome, where the journey cries out: Here, where stones, enormous, burrow in the sea. The shoreline grows specific, black and real. Here is your consummate island; mine.The sea is still. The launch glides inland. We stand in this full calm, a journey's end.Friend, be kind, foreshadow me. Jon Anderson