The sky above you is filled with pelicans,
and far above them, dragons only you can see.

You stand at the seawall watching
the azure sky ornamented with cumulus clouds
in lovely layers above the darkening sea
and the plunging pelicans;
watching gray whales go by, distantly
visible by their spray-smoke-water-spouts;
watching dragons swimming through the clouds,
glimpsing reddish glints on leather wings
that only you can see.

A man leans on the rail beside you
carrying a fishing rod he’s not bothered to set up.
“They’re migrating now,” he says. You smile,
a kindred spirit, and reply,
“The whales? I watch them every year.”
But his gaze turns upward. “The red-gold dragons.
I saw you see them. I watch them every year.”

You stand and talk until the sun goes down and
You cannot see the dragons or the whale-spouts.
No one looks at him, though some people
— who are watching whales or fishing —
glance curiously at you.

When reluctantly you turn to leave the ocean, he’s
gone — the unknown man who can also see the dragons,
invisible to all but you.

You wish he’d said he was going.
You wish he’d said goodbye.
You hope he’ll be back in summer,
watching the humpback whales that spout and breach;
watching the silver-black dragons flying in formation,
honking like wild geese.