They Say Heaven Is Up There

They Say Heaven Is Up There He walks with his hands in empty jean pockets. Bumping into stranger’s shoulders, stepping on leathered toes, knocking over stores’ signs. Eyes high above the stylized buildings, stray gulls, and hungry pigeons, far up to where the trails of gray and white are guided by the hands of a north wind. He follows without a sound. Not one eye darts to the ground as horns blare or a cruel word is tossed across his shoulder. He follows as the slabs of concrete slip into sheets of rock. Further on where the jagged rocks are ground and scattered among the sand. Then to where sand is kicked up and shifts beneath his weight then hardens into a wet clay around his feet by a rhythmic splash. First, the shoes fill then the pockets. Hands ushered out, palms open with eyes kept above. Stoic pursuit turns to joint crunching laps. Tongue out. Breath strained. Limbs quivering. If she is up there he will find her. The clouds know the way. His ears ring, muscles pulse, but he believes. The shoes slip off as the shore drifts into a thin line far behind.