Masters of the Wind
They stand in regimented
order, lined up on the seawall,
all facing into the wind.
A slight turn of a body
catches a squall and sends
an errant gull off balance
forcing it to take flight.
Overhead, some hover,
others bank and sheer off
into the distance,
coming back to hang
in the air before
descending to the ground.
Seagulls are masters
of the wind, feathers tuned
to ride each gust and gently
float the chaos that boils
beneath their wings.
The air is home to them.
Then suddenly, such mastery
collapses into to a ball
of feathered fury, all grace gone,
fighting over the remains
of a big mac flung out
of a car window,
but leaving the pickle.
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