Where he thinks he wants to go

The tern struggles to get where he thinks he wants to go.
Wind buffets and blocks his progress.
That direction is easy. No effort.
Zoom
and you're accross the water,
fathoms away.

But this direction is what I want
he says.

He cuts downward.
He struggles. He wobbles.
He's blown off course.
He stalls, he circles.
He waits.

Then, as the Earth pauses for that
brief second between breaths,
the persistent one grabs the moment
and arrives on the
East Bank.

What's there?
Just a resting place.
A much needed resting place.
No goal, just a game.

I come here for solace and renewal.
This is Mount Trashmore,
a man-made hill in flat, flat coastal Virginia.
A hill of trash
covered with earth and grass.
A lake on either side with
carefully planted
water-purifying flora.

This is home sometimes to
mallards, mulligans, white geese, king fishers,
egrets, great blue herons, gulls, terns, pigeons,
finches, grackles and
who knows what all.

Sometimes they have pow-wow's and
sword fights in mideaval garb,
picnics and races,
RC boat festivals.
I sit watching

the water dance, and the fowl bob.
I hear an occassional laugh of a gull,
splash of a duck
and the omnipresent drone
of tires and trucks on I64.

Buildings are appearing where there
had been woods. Downtown is growing
upward, not outward.

This is where I come when I want the peace
and tranquility of mountains,
where I long for a deep and abiding connection
to Nature Spirits.
The Spirit is here
if I ignore the signs to the contrary.
It is now HOW I want it to be

But it is good enough for now.
It has to be.
Or I'll just circle and stall
and crash
fighting the flow of Spirit's breath.