7 October 2026

By Philip Kuepper

(for Michael Meyer)

On my drive home from the library,
along River Road, an hour ago,
a seagull was racing my Honda,
beneath a cobalt blue vault of sky,
as far as the highway bridge,
where he turned east, away,
from my northerly direction.
O!, how the great oars
of his wings rowed him smoothly
through the crisp October
air, not a stroke missed,
not a beat,
as I tried to keep up.
He led me all the way,
and, then, outraced me,
as I negotiated the curves
in the road, the serpentine
road, that took me away
from the elevated
moment, raised to the poetic.

(3 October 2026)