seagull
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They Come.Flapping their feathered wings.Mocking me in their bizarre language of squawks and gibberishCircling like vultures above unsuspecting vesselsSearching for scraps. If one brings out food on a boat, They Come. They Come in their vast numbe
Like a misty, ocean morning,
smokey blue
pale enough to be grey,
cobalt towards the western cliffs.
A fisherman sets out in the early chill
with a fire lit lamp.
It's glow shocking life into
