Beneath the strong starlit black and beneath the forget-me-not sky, the statue stands in any weather, greeting perfect days and perfect storms just the same.
The sun rises over a perfect sphere of rock, blessing it with its warming rays. Where it lights up the grey shows its many hues, and the places that await rays later in the daytime are the sort of strong grey that brings tall mountains to wakeful dreams.
The sculpture was a perfect starfish, as white as the bleached corals, as blanched as the hearts as the locals. It was made by loving hands and a soul of tears, for the oceans, for her lifeforms, and as a plea to save creation.
The face of the sculpture was not one of joy, nor the sort of happiness that brings laughter, but of the sort of responsibility one gains when protecting freedom and health is placed in one's hands. It was an expression of the kind of seriousness that deep love brings, the awaking of the soulful protector and the coma of the inner jester.