for Sal

He sits with his tail
rooted deeply
in the belly of a seal,
plying hard
with fins of arms
the swirling waters,
marking speck
of rock or tree, striking out
for distant shore.

Whitecaps rush,
riptides wrench aside
the air-light shell.
Oil tankers’ ranges
of mountain waves
can't turn back
the bobbing voyager
from seeing worlds
from far outside
in eyes reverse.

This sun-muffled day
we round the point,
suddenly appears
the humming metropolis,
the glistening pinnacles
of the city, streaming cars
crisscrossing hot cement,
then four young ospreys
flying hard
in the opposite direction.

I turn to follow with my eyes,
see the kayaker
gliding on a fiery ice
into the mouth of the sun.

- Rick Clark