They were –
standing on the bridge,
looking over the water.
They were talking –
in their own words,
their own language.
The misty clouds covering the city.
The tops of the buildings just vaguely visible.
I myself just flying through,
the cold wind against my chest,
raindrops in my face.
My words, gently cutting fog,
become forest, mountain, ocean.
I am the seagull:
a stranger at home,
at home at the waters.
Sarah Sounds 