-the seagull-

the seagull was white-

breasted with feathers laying fold over fold.

its wings were valued in silver-

grey, and rested quietly at its sides.
it was black-backed.

somehow, it braced itself against
the whip of the southerlies which swept
the drenched, laminated shale of the bluing

Newport coastline.

others of its kind painted low-lying clouds

in open-winged performance, 
as the indiscriminate  
polyethylene fishing-line cut deeply

into the soft scale of the standing gull's leg, 
constricting in its biting fatality.

the wound paralyzed and tortured, 
pushed the agonized leg upward into the warm 
density of underbelly,
offering no outward sign of relief as the gull 
stood-fast against the wind, the bite of salt, 
once knowing the freedom of gulls, austere 
in its truth of life.

In the midst of the building 
southerlies aggravating the distance,

and under the weave of the wounded gull's brethren 
gliding in concert within columns of air, 
I walked to my car and there, with but
a swift glance backward,—

drove northbound and homeward.

                                                    Newport