Ruminations In the Parking Lot

Why are the sea gulls shopping here, if not for "White Stag, "No Boundaries." or "Faded Glory?" Is there some other story? Coffee, Tea or You, or just practicing beach and gray-sky calls over concrete, carts, and Handicapped Blue? This turf is for blackbirds of the piercing cry, haughty strut and beady stare. It's not for you to straddle halogen in your evening wear of dove-gray, black tie in this car-lot of no swells, no breakers. What lures you displaced gracefuls-- calls you from rides on a rogue wind, pushing lace-topped tides to stock minnow meals in pellucid sloughs? You've paid your dues, and dour land birds are the parking lot denizens. Surely you harbor a peculiar appetite for hors d'oeuvres that do not swim or paddle, though you buzz pedestrians on stony reaches as when dive-bombing the deep, or cruising the beaches. For whatever draws you to the superstore, super birds, I pray you reap Neptune's pardon as you vie for the rail over the holy grail of the Wal-Mart sign, where no whitefish, black fish, shrimp or snail, no fiddler crab scuttles for safety. And may our God absolve us our sins of the past-- our ever advancing invasion of concrete, steel, and glass.