At night, my father's boat is strung with lanterns. I give him
a basket of pears, three dumplings wrapped in paper.

He presses his thumb to the top of my head for goodbye,
enters the Li River with his flock of tethered cormorants.

They fly out on their leashes, kites flickering against limestone.
The avu swim close, attracted to the bob and sway of lantern.

The cormorants swoop, pluck, swing the fish in pouchy beaks,
thrash against the wooden collars that circle their throats,

trying to swallow, swallow. My father reels the birds in,
yanks the fish from their mouths.

In the morning he walks to the village and I ride my bicycle.
He laughs when I flap my arms, caw and squawk,

stretch my neck to one side, then the other,
like the cormorant escaping its collar.