The sea swells beneath the jetfoil. It’s slowed down to drop in the water. I dismiss fanciful notions that I could have been a sailor in a past life. The rise and fall of the waves introduces a new fear of sinking in the strait of Tsushima. I cancelled my pond hopper plane flight— believing the jetfoil to be smoother. I’m not sure that was correct. But I’m not holding onto my armrests with taut, white knuckles while a grandmother beside me maintains a small smile on her face and peacefully closed eyes.

***

The sun stretches out overhead— I’m walking the river route to my hotel by Ohori park and waffling over whether to go get ramen before checking in. There’s hardly any foot traffic until I reach the corner of a school— the students spill out as the end of the day lets them loose upon the world. There’s whoops of joy, playful shoving, fanciful skips, and excited chatter about after school plans. I’m hardly noticed as I weave in between the groups.

***

Below my hotel window to lily pads in the castle moat are dancing.

At times, it looks like there’s a great serpent, swimming underneath, moving the shrubbery out of its way as it patrols Its small fiefdom.

***

Sitting on the tarmac wondering how many planes I’ve been on in my life.

Used to be easier to answer that.

Under the gaze of a cat eyed flight attendant that looks like she’d handle a whip in satan’s infernal legions.

All tight angles and controlled fury.

***

The plane bucks and shudders under the typhoon’s wind. I jolt back into consciousness every couple minutes. The music from my earphones covers the buzz of the rain on the wings.

I always sit near the wings— I don’t know if it’s intentional. Sitting in the aisle seat is.

***

Packed transit bus ferrying between terminals. My body is in contact with six different passengers. All headed different directions like dandelion seeds caught by the wind.

The smell of rain is so strong the petrichor seeps through the windows of the corridor windows.

In fourteen hours I’ll be in Los Angeles. I passed through customs like a ghost— thirty seconds to stamp my passport and check my residence card.

***

A BLT and black coffee as I sit waiting for my flight to board. Shakey Graves back in my earphones and a rhythmic bob of my head as I watch a conveyor belt of flights shoot off into the sky.