a man sat by a fire at the edge of the world

a fish on his spear, drying

the waves slid quietly onto the shore

the birds slid across the water,

swooping sighing, their voices longing

the man heard and he sang along

humming and sighing his own sweet song

and threading his net as the fish hung drying
when he left there would be no sign

no mark, no monument, no shrine

taking nothing away, he left nothing behind

just a charcoal patch and a tune he made when

he sat by the fire at the edge of the world

in quiet, but for the waves on the beach

he sang and sighed and the fish hung drying

and the birds, they swooped and sighed