I look again, a second glance.
The spinning wings belong to gulls.
Spiralling down to dying trees
on fading breaths of dwindling eddies.
They perch there on the twigs
and weigh them down and strip their leaves
to use them in their giant nests.
Three call to me in ancient tongues
and mock the rabbits in the brush.
They scare me,
make no sense at all.
I run to scatter
with my cries.
They fly to sea,
float on the waves,
and follow swell
like little buoys.
No comments:
Post a Comment