A long line of white-breasted gulls faced the
winter sun along a straight log come to rest in low water.
To leeward, although there was hardly a wind that
mattered, a drift of leftover ice nudged against an isthmus of limestone.
On the far side, almost as many geese held their
positions, headed into a bare current; a few turn for a moment for no apparent
reason.
Then three geese take wing, dark-shaded wings,
large, outstretched - but for a bare three beats they catch the air and then as
quickly drop into the flotilla.
I’m only one, and I would count what I see, but
let’s just say there are two dozen gulls and two dozen geese – and me on the
bridge.
Still, the sun, low, barely warm at my back: how
can they just wait there, watch there, so simply be there, wings tucked under?
Why not fly?
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