Think how it was the seventh day,
and the tenth, the twentieth—
how people must have said
it couldn’t rain like that forever.
And then it did, at least all of forever
they would know, time becoming tide.
We recite those ancient stories,
mythic explanations: Pangaea
breaking up, runoff from one Ice Age
or another. Unless it all
goes back to how, by accident
or on a bet, we crawled up
from the salt wash onto shore,
propped our finny elbows
in the sand and caught our breath,
no ark but the deep hull
of our consciousness, the place
we first put two and two together.