Abaco; Poem - Draft 1

Worn white coral slides between my toes, as the morning floats by;
this is an imprecise hourglass. The wind- and water-
swept scape hides invisible cities.

A giant sea turtle floats by, beckoning me
into the shallow water with her aged flippers.
Her voice is quiet but clear:
"Marco Polo never arrived on these shores. Ours is a fragile Empire."

I'm not sure what Marco Polo has to do with anything, but I keep
quiet.

In respectful silence, I slip my hands into my swimtrunk pockets
and stare out over the ocean. The modest waves lap my legs
in agreement, adding a few plain-spoken but strongly cautionary
words aboutthe destructive power
of tourism dollars and expensive boats.

How has this lovely turtle learned of nature's potential fate?
Can we make it up to her or is it already too late? She catches
her reflection in my cheap aviator sunglasses and takes off down the coast,
paddling strongly and slowly, her head held high.

The sky has volume here. Clouds building over the clear
aqua sea. Small handfulls of water become flying vapor fotresses,
barreling through.