I ran by the water,
my bare feet slip-slopped atop the wet
sand in between the breaks that rushed in
and splashed my shorts.
I ran by an old Chinese woman,
standing like granite toward the sunset.
I pictured her longing,
longing for the Pacific to unfurl before her
so once more,
she could lay eyes on her home.
I hear the words of the psalmist,
as he strums and whispers,
How can I sing a song of Zion in a foreign land?
So I ask him,
Where have we been
that was not a foreign land?
And I’m still running.
Clinging not to this strange country,
but setting my eyes on Zion,
longing one day to arrive and be
an alien no more.