A gull up here is
clearly immature.
All eyes,
cries come
from a big-boned beak.
I seek proof of
his lineage.
Pink legged,
he walks around this ledge eight stories up
as if he owned the place.
I almost believe him,
though swifts race by, unimpressed.
He and I have guessed wrong,
hold misplaced assumptions.
My bold friend,
know
less fish now
so studies show
herring gull numbers too are low.
