The shores of Manhattan
He left behind
To track down a dolphin’s remind

He rowed and rowed
Wiping sweat off his brow
A Red Indian hunter of old

Deeper down the seas
He finally sees
The tail of a swish in his hold

And steadily comes
To meet his old smoke
His Red Indian hut and bone fork

But what he sees there
He finally stares
For the bonfire and cottage no more
             At the shorelines of our home
             Towering above, a million white dove
             Were skyscraping buildings of York.