The gulls are crying again
And there is little I can do
To assuage a grief so inconsolable.
A handful of bread
taken on the wing
Or fought for
In a savage, pecking, squawking scrimmage
Serves to distract them for a moment
From their wheeling, keening sorrow.
But all to no avail.
They ride the wind again,
Mourning a loss we feel at the edge of consciousness.