I've heard of a bird called the Albatross
Who makes his home upon the windswept wave
By day and night he soars above the ocean
Throughout his life, above the foam he plays.

And never near the dry land does he venture
To find a bit of substance, solace, peace.
He much prefers the transience of water
And atmosphere to plainness of the beach.

The Albatross subsists on submarine life
That ventures much too closely to the surface
And hangs on lofty currants to digest it
Then skims the frothy main with hungry purpose

Sometimes he floats together with his brothers
Tossed fitfully by whitecap, wind and spray
But mostly he enjoys the misty solitude
As skimming, swiftly, silently, he plays.
 

March 2, 1987
Aboard USS Bunker Hill (CG 52), off Lahaina, Maui (Vicki's Birthday)