I do not find myself

in shop windows

or the bottom

of a martini glass

but in the slick

mouth of rivers —

the unpolished face

of a wave flecked with foam

before it curls and breaks.
Something of me comes back

in the hunting arc of a Letter-

winged Kite —

the rush to perfection

of a mullet school

escaping the dark

history of carnivores.
When I cast a flattened stone

into the endless blue

it is something to wish upon

and the clouds breaking

tell me where I am —
found in the pull of current

and matching shimmer

of avian eye

no longer fearful

able to sip from its presence —

fall into sky.