God, or some such artist as resourceful,

Began to sort it out.

Land here, sky there,

And sea there.

Up there, the heavenly stratosphere.

Down here, the cloudy, the windy.

He gave to each its place,

Independent, gazing about freshly.

Also resonating--

Each one a harmonic of the others,

Just like the strings

That would resound, one day, in the dome of the tortoise.

The fiery aspiration that makes heaven

Took it to the top.

The air, happy to be idle,

Lay between that and the earth

Which rested at the bottom

Engorged with heavy metals,

Embraced by delicate waters.

When the ingenious one

Had gained control of the mass

And decided the cosmic divisions

He rolled earth into a ball.

Then he commanded the water to spread out flat,

To lift itself into waves

According to the whim of the wind,

And to hurl itself at the land's edges.

He conjured springs to rise and be manifest,

Deep and gloomy ponds,

Flashing delicious lakes.

He educated

Headstrong electrifying rivers

To observe their banks--and to pour

Part of their delight into earth's dark

And to donate the remainder to ocean

Swelling the uproar on shores.

Then he instructed the plains

How to roll sweetly to the horizon.

He directed the valleys

To go deep.

And the mountains to rear up

Humping their backs.

Everywhere he taught

The tree its leaf.

(Tales from Ovid)