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, insolent strut and beady stare. Not for you to straddle halogen in your evening wear of dove-gray, black tie. Not for you to play harlot 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 an unnatural appetite for hors de'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 tsunamis of concrete, steel, and glass.