Seagulls

I haven’t been writing much poetry recently, but yesterday evening I wrote this:

 

Seagulls

 

Wheeling ’round the sagebrush;

Soaring o’er my head;

Singing in their voices harsh

Words I’ve never read.

 

Dipping in the waves of salt;

Playing on the crags.

White as foam in ocean’s tumult;

Tipped pinions fly like flags.

 

Their song is indescribable;

Their cries are somehow sweet:

Give me longing unaccountable

For sand and sky and sea—

Oh, that I were free!

A seagull I would be.

 

I’ve always loved seagulls.  Some people say they’re disgusting, and their voices are ugly, but they remind me of the saltwater and sand and cloudy days.  Free, they fly, far above the pounding waves, calling out in their cracked, salty voices to the open ocean.  How many can say they have not wished to fly! and with the rush of wind and salt spray on one’s wings.

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