To see the sea run from clear aqua
to darker turquoise to genuine navy.

To watch it grow storm cloud gray,
then blacken like cooled lava.

To have the genuine birds’ eye view,
the top-down perspective of below,

the one rowing, anchor at the ready
should there be a desire to heave to,

as those in flight decide when to touch
down here or here or over there,

whether by need or whim—who’s to say?
To fly over is to overlook, not take in

the unnecessary or fret about what
might lie beneath. Which might also

look like forgiveness. Which is,
of course, another word for love.