At sunrise, seagulls are crouched facing the sea, heads buried under their wings.
And in this stillness, a stooped old woman appears with a shopping bag. The gulls
circle her, squawking, necks strained, looking up. “Hello, boys and girls,”
she says. “What a beautiful morning.” She tosses handfuls of bread into
the air. Gulls scurry and flap. They screech. Mine, mine, mine, each trying
to claim every morsel as its own. The sun trills. Its orange-pink light tickles
the underbelly of a passing cloud. Wings beat. Waves crest. Sea vapor infuses the
wind with scents of salt and seaweed. Everything is feeding on everything. And each
in its own voice cries mine mine mine.
men sit alone in a small café
eating sandwiches
made from the same loaf
Bio:
Dan Gilmore
