Shrill evening birds shadow the sun
setting across the water;
in dreams the ocean
comes to full river.
Many times I have climbed this bridge
wildflowers changing the colour of the water,
stirring sparks of conversation
the hoist in the veins
thrashing a flight to autumn.
I hear your string of broken bird calls,
loud and wild as years turn it to echo;
a daydream of winter’s chill,
how gutless is fowl flight,
the comfort of wings.
set as they are jumbled, uneven.
Now there’s a blur of impressions,
the illogical strings in a catalogue of sound.
I walk this bridge alone,
touching air no one else can see,
one step at a time,
learning to be ME.