From the Roof Deck

From our temporary housing’s rooftop deck,
I watch seagulls court on the roof next door,
the male cawing, hopping, wings like exhaust flaps.
I’d never mistake him for a whooping crane,

but being amused is (almost) its own comfort.
From up here, I get how sharks can mistake
surfers bobbing upright on their streamlined boards
for seals, the black wetsuits glistening like pelts,

but to catch a glimpse of the 4th of  July fireworks
I have to drape myself around the chiminea
and list over the deck’s edge. The display starts
with the sun, sizzling and sparking as it sinks.

No holiday required for those pyrotechnics.
Or for my burst of waterworks, now air-dried.