1. Fog

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.

2. Birds

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.

3. Bridge

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.