While they drink and dance below,
only the pilot’s box, white hut,
rises above the long riverboat deck
where I circle and watch neat pastel homes
slip past punctuated by white spires
insisting that heaven is the goal.
The pilot box retracts when the bridge
hangs too low with only a slit, just enough,
for the pilot to see and guide us through.
One sunset breaks through fog
in sprays of shattered light
and one in splays of light shafted
through clouds as day disappears.
Then only light of other lives
from each shore
hints of their stories as I descend,
ready to wish them sweet dreams.