Flight

On the tower wall, a spreading of wings: both the lighthouse and the bird look out to sea. There is a rising feeling as the body lifts up. To be airborne is to make the sky your road.

In the west, the sun shuttles toward its setting, igniting the stone wall and the grass. There are boundaries and then there are those who break free, moving with ease onto another plane.

I cannot take flight, which is why I come here, to this spit of land on the tip of the peninsula — to watch the birds.

They wheel, swoop, dive, cry. Sea and sky alike are theirs. As they fly, the lighthouse stands stout. Thus it is: after a long journey, the lighthouse will be there to call us back home.