Archive
11/22/10 - (1)
The Gulls
If there's one, There have to be at least half a hundred of them, Screeching, preening, not ten feet from the ocean And ten feet from us, As they stand on impossibly skinny legs, Their ship's-prow beaks aimed into the high breeze — These gray-and-white-hued gradations of seagulls, Just waiting, waiting, Before suddenly fluttering into the air, Peeling off, over the water, in quest of fish, Before landing nimbly, en masse, on the sand.
Out of the entire randomly gathered flock, Leaning into the wind, to keep feathers streamlined, A sentinel, twice the other gulls' size, materializes — Guardian of their peripatetic destiny. As long as his eye is sharp, harm won't trespass. Cresting combers roll in, Trip across this strip of South Florida beach, Their destination Hollywood's shore, Where we relax, reading and dreaming. Now, the flock's gone, leaving, in its wake, quietude, Save for the fluid music of the preening waves.
11/22/10 - (1)
|
|||
|
|||
