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.