Field Trip 5/3/22
It’s May, and the water
ripples, sharply edging
like hushes of white snow grooves
on a bedrock of the bay.
The paths backwards blow
me forward into the depths.
The city behind us peeks back.
Its cranes scraping skies.
Its ocean rises and freezes
in cobalt, abyssinian, steely coats
on surface. The land clears
as kids patter, splash-stepping the deck.
Sternside, the strange passengers
play-talk. The workman on the dock
fades away to a meek, yellow period.
Was he waving? Or was he so far
off that his hand flickered
like these fleeting waves?
The chaperones chit-chat
their talk like water droplets
trickling, dripping, gently
evaporating to the hum
of our boat’s monologue. A soliloquy
of jetstreams rising to plateau
heading across to graying tide pools,
awaiting our school finding island.
I can hear the students outward
bound now. Voices in ascension,
arm-locked in cackles. Walking
away. From us, their faint murmur
approaches now atop the planks
above me.
The boat’s maturity cracks like its rails.
The youngest ones, not in age,
but in spirit, want to escape
as the rotors oscillate us to isle.
And below, tornadoes propel them
up to adolescence.
Our man arrives. The spirits lose
each other. The boat’s side rams.
The corner in anchor,
and the American flag
shakes me. The water flow matches
The ski-marked ripples
slowly from broken scratches
to quiet simple streaks.
At bay, the chaperones
are less superior to the spirit
laughter conquering
the waves of roars
beneath the surface.
It’s May, and the water
ripples, sharply edging
like hushes of white snow grooves
on a bedrock of the bay.
The paths backwards blow
me forward into the depths.
The city behind us peeks back.
Its cranes scraping skies.
Its ocean rises and freezes
in cobalt, abyssinian, steely coats
on surface. The land clears
as kids patter, splash-stepping the deck.
Sternside, the strange passengers
play-talk. The workman on the dock
fades away to a meek, yellow period.
Was he waving? Or was he so far
off that his hand flickered
like these fleeting waves?
The chaperones chit-chat
their talk like water droplets
trickling, dripping, gently
evaporating to the hum
of our boat’s monologue. A soliloquy
of jetstreams rising to plateau
heading across to graying tide pools,
awaiting our school finding island.
I can hear the students outward
bound now. Voices in ascension,
arm-locked in cackles. Walking
away. From us, their faint murmur
approaches now atop the planks
above me.
The boat’s maturity cracks like its rails.
The youngest ones, not in age,
but in spirit, want to escape
as the rotors oscillate us to isle.
And below, tornadoes propel them
up to adolescence.
Our man arrives. The spirits lose
each other. The boat’s side rams.
The corner in anchor,
and the American flag
shakes me. The water flow matches
The ski-marked ripples
slowly from broken scratches
to quiet simple streaks.
At bay, the chaperones
are less superior to the spirit
laughter conquering
the waves of roars
beneath the surface.