On the banks of the Saigon River, a Buddhist ceremony, the red-clad priest tipping fish from bright blue bins into the water, the worshippers bowing. Downstream, fishermen stub out cigarettes, walk to their boats.
Above the valley full of smoke, the meadow is done with summer, taking on texture of thick brocade, yellow, orange, and brown. An unseen solitaire gives his single call, again and again. A vulture crosses the blue sky, heading to California.
On the walls of the Iceland church, a gaunt old man, a puffin-catcher, raises his net toward half-painted birds. Below the cliffs outside, a boatload of visitors, all in orange, raise binoculars, gaze up at the puffins looking down.
The ship slides off a wave, strikes hard, shudders and booms. I wipe spray from my face, set my feet for the next rise and fall. Above, aloft, the albatross, white, trims his wings, turns toward Antarctica, and is gone.
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