Author Joseph Heywood
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Jumplings

Squawking gulls flick the slick,
dive-bomb the surface and light
behind me, beside a red sign,
NO TRESPASSING THIS MEANS YOU,
to tear at their breakfasts
while leg-long Atlantics
perform aerobatics above quicksilver.

My cat sometimes sits by the wall
by the stairs leaping
for the sheer pleasure of it,
suspending at the top of shadows' eyes,
defying gravity, or denying it,
I can't say which.

I see in Sasha and salmon
shared exuberance,
to do what they are born to do
without pay.


 
 
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