Orion's Belt

In the morning it's still a little cold, but it's bright
Even squinting I see the water's the same gray blue as my eyes which
Widen
As my body bristles in the breeze and I want to curl up back in 
The dark little vardo
And wrap myself in memory, grin.

Instead I brace myself and stare at the pier and think
"this is the last time you'll see this pretty pier, you're going to fly back to New York in no time, and this breeze will be replaced with that of the Q train shuttling you home"

I feel my self grumble with the thought, and my mind instead turns to red solo cups on worn wood planks, silks in trees, Orion's belt,toes in the sand, and Cool Hand Luke. The heron that scolded, and I just laughed and laughed til I stumbled back to my little gypsy wagon, pitch black and I felt the hush and rush.

And with that I can grin. We're all travelers of some kind. We enter, we exeunt. But I will not concern myself with the end of the play.

And so my pale eyes reflect back the water, and I stretch up towards Orion's belt,my fingertips smell like a kretek, perhaps Orion thinks of me when he smokes a djarum. He's there, with a slim waist of stars, even though I can't see him in the sunrise.

My fingertips graze the cusp of morning and I whisper prayers of thanks that my wings are not clipped.