By Chuqing Zheng

To You, also by the Seaside

By my window stands an overpass
Each morning, traffic glides like swift fish
Sliding softly beneath its arches
Textbooks in my schoolbag catch the sunlight
A pencil traces on paper: tall buildings are trees that grew tall
Wind slips through gaps between office towers
Bringing news of ocean freighters from far away

I hear your home is by the sea
Port cranes like giants’ arms
Pile containers gently into small hills
Do you often sit on reefs
Counting ships coming home? The smoke from their chimneys—
Does it blend with the clouds here
Into the same stretch of white?

I asked my teacher, “What does ‘Gwadar’ mean?”
She said, “Hope by the shore”—
Like how, by the seasides of Shenzhen
There were once tiny fishing boats
Before rails that run and flights that soar took root

In truth, we all live by the sea
Your waves and mine
Both kiss the same blue
I want to share the candy in my bag with you
Fold the paper with a subway sketch into a boat
Let it drift on the current
To tell you: whether my overpass
Or your port
When we look up
We’ll always see the same bird
Carrying the glow of dawn