The last father, the last mother,

 

The last father, the last mother,

the last little girl toddle to their old sedan
leaving me alone on this beach
beyond sunset —

Oops, not alone.
A single seagull at my feet. She tries
wobbling to stand—on only one leg.
Flops into wet sand beak-first
like a nail into a board.
Stuck. She’ll asphyxiate.

No. Awkwardly she struggles, flops,
frees her beak and hops one-legged,
washed by creeping edges of surf
which the ocean deals, and deals again.

How did she lose one leg?
It must hurt. Is bird pain like human pain?

Could I capture? Take her home?
Google how to rehab seagulls?
Make crutches?
Do I want a bird in my house
squawking at my dog, pooping
on my bookshelves, flapping in my kitchen?

Post-sunset the sky is a trout-blend of color.
A cold wind, salt smearing eyeglasses.
Smelly rotting kelp washed by a
rogue wave, icy water to my ankles.

And the seagull —suddenly gone.
Where did she go?
I’m surrounded by carcasses of crabs,
mounds of mussel shells, sand dollar saucers.
Surrounded by death which the ocean deals,
and deals again. Where did she go?

…..

First published in Plum Tree Tavern
photo by analogicus on Pixabay