The Gulls are cutting
against the inland wind.
White kites against the brown blue bruise of river.
Bicycle rests against suicide proof chain links.
Below, barges heaped with coal
approach the locks. The clouds are
playing Pictionary above
with an enthusiasm
I could muster
if I were high
er than where I am. Seeing them scrawl
and call to one another
in the hours when there is no one I can call
who would answer in kind
brings my eye to the dirty red sun
and inside I shine
for the better part of a minute
because I am super connected
to Mother.
