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.


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