As I swim through the Ocean Breadth,
A Turtle—or the like—
Who fears a Few but not of Death—
Returns The Caller's Hike.

It passes by a kindly Wave—
A gently smiled nod—
Perhaps it grieved a Deed unsaved—
A Sorrow left uncaught.

I make my way to grab its Tail
and question what it knew—
It merely turns its Head to wail:
I am not of the Few!

What more of us should Timing take—
When things were never sown—
But heading backwards has a Stake
of never having Grown.