I fly from the window where the rain should start soon.

Below, old men begin slow retreats, hooks boxed, rods

dismantled, yesterday’s papers wet wrapping new fish.

I am the black pelican wheeling through almost night sky,

knowing hunger, skimming the shore for shallow fish.

The ocean wants to break the pier to pieces;

that disappointed bridge trembles with the pounding.

The sun may as well be an abandoned lover for all

the warmth it sheds. This dreary globe is enveloped

in gray light though thunder muscles

ripple bright lightning claps.

Savoring the salt wind, waves and white caps,

Seeing me upright, flying,

The black pelican pivots unhurried,

dissolves into the east’s broiling darkness,

leaving me at the window

slumming the windy stygian strand.

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