I take him on a walk behind Golden Gate Fields, stand him
before the water and the city, make him look at the view.
He says there's nothing to see and blames everything,
the elements, the things that we can't control.
I describe the diversity of grayness
and point to the seagulls but he dismisses them as plain.
As they pass overhead, I place one hand on his chin
and tilt his head to the sky. I tell him that it takes strength
to glide, to hover the way birds do, above us.
I point to individuality, the base of lightness, the span
of the wing, and lineage. I force him to study the steadiness
of one simple slate colored gull. His eyes are glassy,
they hold little but a reflection. I don't expect anything to happen.
I don't expect him to see the miracle
of the scavenger, begging, waiting
for discards, waiting for humans
to be kind or careless.