We've found a cave, a crack in a rock on the sea. Its lips are gelled with thick smooth ice. As we have watched the cave, we have seen the froth break up onto the lips again and again - softening and hardening at once. This is a church for wandering birds. The wind whistles over the smooth lips, and we call back in turn. We are tired, and wish our chapel was more illustrious. It is rough gray stone from who knows where - a piece of Africa? fragments of the moon? We do not care.
