island

The quicksilver clouds
Hang over the glowing sea.
On the shore are etched pictures.
That one looks like Bob Dylan walking on by.

The clear, glacial mountains
Reek foamy, purple plumes of smoke.
So calm that the smoke is almost stagnant.
Going nowhere.

The wizard draws a crowd at the foot of the mountain.
He stands taller than the rest.
“This land belongs to all of us
And anybody who cares to visit us.”