‘Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forests of our lives.’ — Mary Oliver
A gull navigates the world unlike you and I. She is often motionless, stands on the sand — one leg or two, sometimes sits, waiting,
restful, wistful, the day isn’t long enough, food is scarce. The beach covered in trash, people’s belongings strewn on the beach floor like a teenager’s room.
She shakes, flutters, feathers dabbed in oil spill, webbed feet cut by pointed glass. The brightness of day grows cloudy, heavy. A calm sea turns choppy. She can feel the world rotating while balancing, dizzy in its topsy-turvy.
I can hear the gull’s sigh watching the human legacy washed ashore, waiting for the world to restore when there was no plastic, no wire, no…
