There are times when the repeat button becomes a friend
that I devote myself to. Some moments, I can
not change the station fast enough, searching…
searching for movement in satellite images
of the block where my boat floats.

Your hair waves of grains, a portrait
of a field and a wind that conflates
to hide that focused ocean of lenses
staring right to me. But more I am quenched
by your every-move anecdotes.

I am glad today is your birthday.
You were born and I am grateful
for that. Each day you are the same
sun-flaring, midnight marauding station.
May your day be your image grown.