Poem

Winter


The seagulls

have flown inland

from the sea,

squawking and carrying on,

complaining that life

is short,

that the weather

has changed for the worst,

that there are just

too few good flights

left in their

tired wings;

few things left

to fight for.



The seagulls

have flown inland

from the shore

with their feathers fluffed,

their breasts puffed;

what more have

they to live for—

beyond the garbage on

the rooftop next door—

squawking, crying there

are too few good

days anymore?


TS