Land Locked
Stretched out under the snow
a dead seagull, wings spread.
I must have seen a dead seagull before,
but if I did it was not a snow burial,
not in Kentucky, not in my backyard.
By late afternoon
a weak sun had thawed the carcass,
as I eased a shovel under it,
a sharp wind lifted one stiff wing
as if to fly.
Land locked from any shore.
I dearly wished that both of us
could see the ocean from here.
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