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 
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