Am I Here?

And he is locked.
Locked and loaded.
He comes home,
crawls out and thru the blue, gray  falling fog of clouded rainy sunset and stumbles in,
wrestles keys into faded brass slots of doors that are not his,
leans in and studies the pattern of which way is up,
and which way is down.

Runs his fingers across the edge,
in the fading dark that awaits and will come,
slides the jagged metal into its place,
tumblers connect, fall, click,
knobs turn
doors open.

And he enters the dark,
and is home.

Purrfect.

But lets go back.

The ride home out across Todd's Farm is alight with white,
in the fog,
and against the gray and black sky that bears down on the island up from the south,
tides rise over bulk heads and roads begin to wash out.

A storm is coming,
A-and,

The ibis's have returned.
And the heavy diesel rumble sets them to flight.
Or maybe it's the storm coming in?
It's just timing and his clock has been off as of late.
But the flock of white birds alight
and with the window down,
over the rumble of his heavy broke engine,
he can hear the flap and stroke of wings,
as beautiful, delicate things, take flight and rise.
Three birds ride close to his open window,
purrfect timing and skill and grace.
He could reach out his window and touch their wings.
This is how close they are,
as close as he is to such beauty.

Rise.

They follow him for a spell.
Chase and dart and draft the truck as he makes his way
out onto the island.
For a moment, it seems as if the white gathering of birds in the fog and the gray,
are guiding him home.

Strange,
delicate,
angels.

Strange,
delicate,
angels.

A-and he returns home.
Guided and with purpose,
into the dark and the gray and the blue.

"Does anyone see all this?"

He leans deep into his soul,
like cheetahs wild and in love.

"Does anyone hear me?"

He presses his ear against the screen of his tiny kitchen window,
and listens.
Listens to the never ending want and scream of human ache that is so easily resolved,
listens to the ebb and flow of the water that is his soul.

"What have I done?"

And he walks out to the waters edge,
plants himself upon the end of the pier,
unlaces his heavy boots,
removes his two pairs of holey socks,
doubled up for warmth,
rolls up his double lined heavy Carhartts above the knees,
takes a deep breath,
and dips his scared feet,
into the cold,
black, glorious water.

"I am here."

Strange,
delicate,
angel.