Morning, St. George Island
A seagull alights on the broken dock,
dull grey feathers floating
in the thick Florida summer.
It cracks its beak, shrieks to the sun,
barely risen over the bayou.
Light glitters over sandbars, silty waters,
silver fish; light reflects
sky into sea, sea into sky.
A boat rocks on slight waves;
thick, strained rope anchors it to a sodden post.
Its deck is littered with soda cans,
empty sunscreen tubes, torn fishing line.
A door slams from the house by the road;
the seagull flaps away, startled,
leaves wisps of fuzz dancing in the air.
It disappears behind the dunes, a retreating ‘m’
on the horizon. Footsteps approach,
footsteps accompanied by soft giggles
and a pair of hands reaching
for the falling feathers.
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