A dash of snow among city steel, your white curves
alight upon the mock rock scape.
Fountain water trickles between pale plumes and marbled stones
as you settle your toes within
human nature.
You tired of the sea, yet for all the places you could dream of,
you craved a taste of luxury condos
with an outdoor rock installation and six trees.
This is your routine, daily
forfeiting the waves for a cyclical stream,
stamping not on sand, but wooden planks
as the pitter patter of your spatula feet
booms against the skyscrapers.
It’s always you, and only ever you.
Are you so selfish to hide this from friends?
Perhaps so lonely that you had no one to bring?
Or so rash as the only gull who dared delight in this fiction?
No, you know nothing of such vices,
you know just of the weather on your plumes
and the flavors in your beak.
Suddenly, the feeling is all wrong.
The city creeps into blood built to soar
and nearly clips your wings to this imitation.
A single feather is all that mirrors
your dot disappearing into sky,
a heart half-torn between reality and illusion.