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.
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