Drift

A poem for this moment

There is a swell and a hum,
the sting of a chemical burn.
Then a gull overhead—screeching—
as if ready to strike.

This is no Jonathan Livingston,
no quiet invitation to rise—
only a will to see us fall.
Featherless, we climb,
awkward in the wind,
ignoring the prescient call of danger.

I love the beach but hate the ocean—
its shifting hunger,
its froth-lipped mouth,
its patient, endless breath.

From here, we are the world’s eyes,
watching what is vast,
while the important thing
shrinks to nothing.

Details dissolve. Context is lost.
For a moment, I am in flight—
soles unconnected to souls,
earth turned to distance.

Then, the hard return.
Bones against concrete.
The sky above, thick with heat,
a force beyond grasp.

Fear swallows promise whole.
A grin remains, weightless,
as we are pulled from shore.