Mountains

I am always looking for mountains.
Where I am, the fingers of the estuary mix
fresh and salt water. Along strips
of highway, furniture stores and short-
term car rentals hum with their own kind 
of static impatience. In summer, 
ships make a procession into the bay,
their flags furling the colors of countries
elsewhere. Some of these
countries must have mountains too,
but I have no ability to imagine them.
On the other side of the river,
you can see office buildings of a small city
with cobbled streets; signage of new hotels,
new high rises.  Once you learn
a shape, it is likely you'll recognize it again—
tern, crested cormorant, heron; 
the loon's drawn-out and silvery call 
at night; how loneliness seems to make 
its own shape,  threading in 
and out of the mist.