things move around

We watch the float-plane tug and churn,
auklike, across the inlet,
and then, airborne,
hear its low drone; we see it turn and chug
up into a wet bank of fog,
and vanish,
my daughter and I,
today like any February day,

grey wake fading on the face of the water.
I put my daughter down
and watch her run along the seawall,
flailing at gulls,
laughing,
the cries of the birds bearing her away
irrevocably into the world,
today like any other day.