Freedom Rights, For Seagulls

Did you know that seagulls are racists?
Brown against white
Turf wars spill out before me on the banks of the English Bay.
Light against dark,
and a small territory,
of an invisible square.

Do you think they would kill him?
If he continues to refuse?
The imposed order of things?

Scatter

Horizon clouds
Like snowbanks from the shore.
Drift-less puffs of cold steam.

Free will,
the power to surprise.
Sailing ships in the sky with rotary blades,
cuts the power.
And blankets the atmosphere.
In and out,
out and in,
in and out and in and in and in. . .

The endless struggle.
Factory workers of the sky,
dropping bombs of water,
into steam.

It ends here.
The beginning and the end ends
In all moments,
As this moment is.

White fought back.
The larger of the darkest having gone,
he picked a protegee brown to unleash his repressed emotions on.
His relinquished territory reclaimed in the name of opportunity,
Like all good things.

Though it may remain a question of personality,
not consciousness. . .
I can't prove the gull is angry.
I can only argue he has the capacity to be.

Water wind is always remarkably cold.

Ground pepper shores.
And salt washing constantly inwards.
Spice of the earth,
Below my feet.

And now the sun.
The passage of time unbearably bearable.
Is this all there is too it?
Just a request?
And a promise,
That tomorrow there may, be?

Smoky processed pork, does not feel as good as it smells.

Mum, you're son's going to remember this forever,
Days at the beach,
At least somewhere in his mind.

I remember feeling safe like that.
The cleanliness of security,
It washs perceptions dry
Through a wet wind.

This will always be an experiment,
this will always be guttural.
It's how I was trained.
Yes, you should do well,
But how do you feel?

Oh the places you'll go!
Forgot it was a metaphor,
and lost it's own subtly,
along with mine.

But here I am.
Not quite alone,
but wishing I was
at least out of range.

Are you supposed to swim in this?
Doesn't seem right. . .
How does he know?

Speed boats across the elastic tundra
knows not that I am here,
Nor what it is speeding towards.
All he can say is brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. . . .
Which I interpret to mean,
I love you.

Harold.
You're a good man,
if just a bit broken.
I think age might age you - but I'll never know.
Thanks regardless,
For all the fish.

The oppressed seagull thanks you too.