A Gull’s Corpse

It's lying on its back 

on a large flat rock,

exposed to the grayish sky like an offering 

to some odd god.

There's a hole in its breast, 

where ghost-white feathers were once embedded in its fragile skin,

blackened by the cruel ways of time and the elements.

It's 5:30 in the morning

and my brother and I are at the ocean. We came to see the sunrise.

The bird is alone.

No mourners come to pay their respects, 

save for a maggot or two 

here to feed on foul flesh.

As I stop to gawk at the gull,

a curious thought comes into my head 

of carrying the carcass to the top of the cliff 

so it could see the sunrise too.

I remember then of course that,

heart wrenched from its feathered chest 

by a cruel and holy hand,

and insides picked clean by bugs and bereaved brethren in need of a meal,

well, this seagull must not care much for a sunrise.