Once the engines came
There was no more listening to the
Heave and rush of the sea
No more hearing whale song through white oak

The canvas would fill like a cannon firing
And then the fresh wind would take her
Wherever she would go

Sailors had no sails after a while
And the Spruce masts clotted the harbors
Clumping and muttering, the lines slack

The smell of pine tar rose with the heat
While the usurping iron boats pounded and
Pinged with stress of their bright new loads

Look, the wind itself was fuel
Before everyone demanded haste
And would sacrifice anything for hours

The Flying Cloud broke the speed record in 1854
New York to San Francisco, around the Horn,
In eighty-nine days and eight hours, propelled by air

After a few wars and a century and a half
That record time was reduced to almost nothing
The wind was unencumbered, unemployed
Now sadly only an occasional hazard to navigation.