Herring Gulls
A POEM
They quarrel in low tide mud
Over scraps of rotten food;
They rest on fishhouse roofs.
Retreating from feud.
They batter the air in flight,
Shrill-screaming at swifter thieves,
Swooping to carry off
What another leaves.
They circle on motionless wings,
Then ride a wind’s long rise,
Disdaining the distant dunes
And greedy cries.
Sea hunters again, they join
The endless offal chase —
Rapacious, yet seekers of sky
On wings of grace.
You May Also Enjoy
Pietà
“Does the darkness cradle thee Than mine arms more tenderly?”
— Willa Cather
The Prodigal Father and His Child
“Well, Father, my share of the farm has
been turned into gold.
I take it…
Submitting Donation...