Mexican Free-Tailed

I must revise
my opinion of you. Beautiful—

not terrifying. Tiny and fast and
docile and determined. The calmness

of the Colorado River and Lady Bird
Lake settles as the sun sets.

And we in the boat wait
for you

with your long fingers
and clinging wings to wake. Much chirping

and preparing in the roost before you
emerge from under the Congress

Avenue Bridge to swarm
above the tree line—a 25-mile trek

each way for your nightly
feeding. I must revise.

The Depot

A young man in a loud
print shirt, baggy shorts, flip

flops, makes
a balance beam
from a track rail. Records

a freight train’s flight
through the station
to replay and give false hope to future

passengers dodging bats
passing under the eaves. Lights
from boats on moonlight

excursions and the Harbor
Bar across the channel
on the island with no name

transform the river
into a stage. Others wait
to travel west:

White Fish, Montana,
Portland, Oregon,
Chico, California,

eventually. For me, the waiting
will be longer than the journey home.