We’re parked wings wide
along the waterfront. The breeze
carries seagull squawks, scents
of salt and grills. It’s inescapable—
in nearby spaces. The conundrum
of dodging fellow Airstream riders.
They drop in unexpectedly
loiter, laugh, hoot like seagulls,
to scavenge samples and leftovers.
We lower our wings
with the sun, settle down
watch the waves and whitewater,
taste spindrift. A purr here, a grunt
there, even a cry or two. It’s our last
trip with the Airstream, dad says.
Fuel prices, waiting lists
for dwindling park places, competition
like little silver capsules
released from dark clouds.