Ava's Seagulls
Near water’s edge in evening, a young man
sits on a wooden bench, well-weathered, well worn,
his weary eyes amist. He’ll one day plan
to bring his daughter here, his second born,
so she can watch the lake, see its foamy crests
tip-toeing toward her, tip-toeing back.
He can only imagine how impressed
she’ll be, his little five year old crackerjack,
at seagulls swirling high up above her,
how hard she’ll laugh when their abandoned flight
ends with their heads submerged under water.
He can only imagine, driving home that night,
how much he’ll hope she won’t forget that day.
He clears his eyes. Through mist the gulls fly away.
11/8/2018
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