After I opened
the curtains, the city’s massive ocean
ripples just as I’d remembered: dusty
from the years I spent chained
to my bland suburban neighborhood, flooded
with identical trees and identical houses, familiar
from shining years past. Below me, sprawling streets
meld into the concrete tiles of the path
beside the harbor, the same path I walked
with my brother on cool summer nights, watching
as the bland gray buildings across the harbor
erupted into an ocean of light, bustling with life
and the bridge illuminated the shadows of the invisible
lighthouse with its indigo glow.
Now, the water’s gray face ripples, dull, reflecting
the darker clouds approaching, as the freighters carry
loads disturbing the quiet waves. The sky, pitch
black, holds the stars until the city lights
revive them. Past the harbor, the waves still roll
through the monotonous stones, still shadowed
by the neighboring apartments, flickering
with the light they give it, with houseplant shadows.
Beneath them, the bridge—gray as ever—blends into sky.
Channing Huang is a student at the International School in Bellevue, Washington. When he’s not writing poems, he can be found singing or reading poems.