We were waiting for a boat that was never a boat.
Waiting is a kind of journey.
We waited and looked. A gull became a boat.
Wind in our own hair
sounded like a sail accepting the air in order
to move. On the morning
that we found a broken sand dollar, the oldest
person in the village said,
The boat will be here soon. I felt relieved that
we weren’t waiting for
a train, it would have been worse, silent railroad
tracks, leaves instead of water
in the harbor. One time, I tried to shout out, It’s
a kite, not a boat! This whole time
it’s been a kite! By then my voice had dispersed,
it was all I could do to wave.