They Are Strangers Here

Seagulls circle high,

In the heavy October sky

wide, white wings

nudging the dull air

riding gyres 

past the waving crest

of our highest redwood.

They are strangers here.

They’ll find no shallows to fish

no mussels to lift

above the concrete wharf,

drop and crush

and delicately dissect

still living white flesh.

They must be lost.

Here they’ll find no flying sail

no schooner driving into

wintery winds. They’ll have

no rising bow here

to amend their errant way.

And yet, for now, they’ll stay,

Graces of light

In the gray gloom

of this cold autumn

afternoon.

(27 Oct. 2010)