Brood Like a Mood or Brood Like a Bird?

Don't forget how you biked

the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset.

You were–

in the clouds

but distant from them.

Plump and pink

while the sun sat

fat and crimson

beyond, in the

too far to touch,

too hot you’ll melt

region of the sky.

Sky is called spirit

in some languages, you know.

Or maybe I'm getting confused.

The Holy Spirit brooded over the waters.

What broods over them

April 21st 2020?

Brood like a mood

or brood like a bird?

The sky and me,

undistinguished now

and as one,

draw our brows

and contemplate

the reflection

of our firmament boiling

in the cool blue

becoming night black

waters.

The lapping waves

are blearily blinking

with fantastic colored lights–

a million mouths at

different moments

whisper warmly,

“Nestle in. Nestle in.

And wait till morning.”