The people like to call this bridge golden, though by day
It appears to be red and by night, black. I never see it
The way they do, nor would I want to. I am an artist
Of black and white and all the uncountable shades
Of grey and gray in between. I paint with water and
The air is my medium. Call it hydrography and assume
Viewers who want to feel the pictures I produce
Damply, on their faces, like morning and a new day.
A bridge is fine if all you want to do is pause
Between one bit of land and the other, holding on
To the hard, cold, damp steel with your feet, and
Watching the cars go this way and that, watching
Sky blur into bay, and bay into sky: all that grey
And gray. On our feathers, the fog huddles close
Then we cast it off as we burst into the damp air:
Speed! Freedom! Even the light cannot catch us.
No one values stability the way I do, or the way
I reach out to both sides: always. Standing still
Is an unappreciated art. Fog appears and disappears.
Birds land and take off again. I, alone, remain.
Connecting land and land, grey and gray, birds
And fog. I, alone, repeatedly painted red by humans,
Grey and grey by fog and dusk and early morning,
Hold land and water together with my solitude.