Yokohama Bridge in the Rain

It is foggy, raining; the water churns, slate-colored with froth caps.

The wind unsettles; the crows swoop through the haze; the rain drips down the balcony, makes rivulets on the windows.

Upon the bluff, high above the city, the bridge rises, stately, rushing commerce across Tokyo Bay.

The suspension cables arc toward the heavens,
nearly white in the endless variants of grey: sky, water, road.

Headlamps push through the haze, creating soft stars streaming across the roadway.

The lights atop the bridge flash, arrhythmically, catching the eye.

Even if you turn your back, first a quarter turn, then fully away, yet, you still see them pulsating beneath your closed lids.

Not the rhythm of disco balls, nor the speed of flash bulbs, they pique, agitate.

“Perhaps, that is what catches the pilot’s eye, that perturbation.”