Bonfires at the pink hour
As the white sun drops purple from the clouds,
Gulls tiptoe the shore,
Another day of trickery done.
At each drape of wave another one
Digs at bubbles with an orange beak
To swallow crabs whole along the ribbons of suds.
Scrappy and heartless, feathers ruffled
By the wind, they shine in molten light
Feathers of surf bring in.
There are always others watching,
They mill around atop the rise
As if outside a bar, waiting for trouble
To reveal itself in one of its many guises,
Heartless their black eyes below the thick
Marine conspiratorial clouds.
Some beige and white outcasts forage for sand fleas
Around the uninterpretable scrapings of humans,
They appear to be starving, poor heartless things,
As they drop balls of kelp like hair ties loosened
By a woman too full of desire and irritation
Thoughtlessly, its rat tail snaking across
The fabric of sand, as if to be returned.
The gulls have perfected walking
As their preferred communication
But are quick as razors to lift away
From any asks in gusts of black formations
That glide below the peach translucence
Shining through the ocean greys.
Heartless, they put it all on you
As usual, the one who shows compassion,
The plastic bag taken elicits shrieks
Of heartbroken accusation,
Their creaking rasps so strong
It reminds you how you agreed
Long ago to take this on,
To bear a thankless karma
That seemed somebody else's
Without a hesitation,
Not knowing what it would feel like
To see the painful trudging
To some impossible goal, unaware of
Who they are or what they are doing.
You only knew there was something
In it for you, to learn.
