Cormorants sat on the pier by my house,
Stretching their wings to catch the sun…
They gathered the warmth like manna,
As their spiritual quests had begun.
Their wingtips pointed towards heaven,
As if announcing they are free…
Following the sun like a second hand,
They suddenly returned to the sea.
After my thirty years in the Northwest,
I felt the urge to fly…
Sitting on a rock at Boiler Bay,
I reached my arms up to the sky.
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