The poetry of seagull is the poetry of suspension. Anachronistic Christmas ornament hung from a branch of spring sunshine. White-winged sliver of moving stillness. Grey-tipped punctuation mark parachuted into Time’s rambling sentence. No snowy dove with olive leaf this bird, so full of raucous hunger, profanity and competition. Yet surprisingly capable of peace. As we too might be — if we could only learn to rest this way. Briefly and utterly in the blue palm of a quiet sky.

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