a rocky monolith, jutting from the sea, is smashed by waves. overgrown with moss & gnarled trees. battered brutally & unrelentingly, and yet unchanged & unmoved. birds confidently settle upon the rocks & take off again, leisurely.
There was a philosopher named Pangloss whose sole objective was to get across: Ours is the best of worlds! And yet, the crapper swirled and nothing escaped but dregs and dross.
There was an old man, some called "ancient," who got riled everyone was so impatient. "The world was much better when we talked by letter, and you only got instant replies if adjacent."
victory in the palm of the hand (specifically, the winged, laurel-bearing Nike -- goddess who personifies victory) it's a bit on the nose as is the bent front leg as if standing on the chest of a vanquished foe as is the looming, nothing says victory like looming (unless you're a weaver) but victory is never so unambiguously glorious as it's mythologized
the desert runs all the way to the lakeshore, where it - surely - ends?
nine miles down an old dirt road that runs the valley, the road disappearing before the pass, fading into a footpath, and then into a vague notion in a rare turn of events, i can see - but not hear - the whitewater that's running back toward from whence i came, and then on to a sea in some distant country i sit on a grassy hilltop, feeling i'm far enough down the road to be at peace
arrayed in pairs, mythical guardians stand aside a stone staircase the tourists seem undissuaded by the figures - be they freakish, grotesque, or mean the most dismaying of them may be the ones with a warm, polite grin... and a lion's body
Tiger Riding for Beginners 