A day like this one—
afterdayafterdayafterday
of gray skies, low-hanging
tule fog, stupid fog, not
pretty, wispy, mystical,
moody San Francisco fog—

when the sun makes a
ta da! appearance, though,
of course, it’s been making
its daily march across the sky
while we hunkered down
under the stupid cold fog—

you just want to fly through
the blue splashed overhead
as if some overenthusiastic
art goddess purposely spilled
the paint bucket just to
dazzle you,

and you find your wings,
the ones that have apparently
been tucked between your
shoulder blades all your life,
and, shaking them out
damply,

you stretch and shake out
the cricks in your neck, make
a few tentative up-and-downs
with those wings, then start
flapping hard,

and the next thing you know,
you’re lifting, lifting, soaring,
flapping, moving across the blue,
heading for the river, the one
this city was named for,

and you circle the towers of
the bright gold bridge lifting
out of the water like light itself,
and you behold this place
you call home,

wispy fingers of cloud reaching
for the blue, building tops shiny
and arranged with geometric
precision, and you flap and glide,
flap and glide,

not tiring, never wanting to stop,
certain that this day is meant
for you, because it is,
you high-flying soaring beast, you,
it so is.

•••

With thanks to photographer Martin Christian for the stunning photo of downtown Sacramento and Tower Bridge, which inspired this poem.