Ken Burns effect
I'm writing by candlelight in my tent,
next one over from Odysseus,
journey going on eight years,
nearly forever. Each day
we scan the sea, look leagues east,
almost back to Troy. The men mutter
we should be home now,
complain about the weather,
want more wine, more sheep.
They fear our next adventure
will be worse than Cyclops, Sirens.
If gods were filming this voyage for PBS,
they would likely zoom out,
show campfires, beached boats,
the whole island hopeless,
gauzy mist covering all light,
pan to one side, there in darkness,
Penelope, alone, unraveling night.