The weather app says the sky
should have cleared by now.

If I were still 8,
I would beg to go to the library,

then the Flying Horses.
I don’t need to beg,

borrow, or steal any more
moments from my childhood.

They remain where they are—
inside a gray shingled shed

near where individual shingles
were once suspended from rope

to make three swings.
One for each of us.

With the strong wind
coming off the sound,

I should keep my eyes focused
on the path in front of me.

Watch invasive cormorants
dive for fish in Menemsha Harbor

and not feel sorry for the skunk
that didn’t make it across the road.