Seagull launch

As I looked out, I saw a tight cluster of bright white dots against the tan of a sand spit. Seagulls rested several hundred yards away from me on the far side of the island just downstream from the Kaw River Bridge. In the time it took for me to look away and then back again, they were all airborne. In some quite distinct pattern, random and ordered, the seagulls all flew away from where I stood, flying downstream. They were well-spaced apart, yet flying together, bright white wings cutting through the air against a gray-shadowed river.

I had missed it. I had missed the very moment of their launch. I had simply not been watching for the signal for what might have been the last seagull launch of the season.

Still, looking again downstream, I followed the gulls’ flight as they ascended, smoothly, gracefully upward, bright white wings fully extended. And then they all turned in an easy circle and angled back upstream, settling like sprinkles of bright white salt on dark rocks in the shallow gray water. The gulls had come back to rest not much more than fifty yards from where they had taken off a minute or so ago.

Then I saw that a few gulls had separated themselves from the flock and flew up and over the bridge where I stood watching. The wind caught their wings and turned them, but the gulls turned again and headed, determined, into the wind. Perhaps it was their task to report to mission control that the practice launch had been successful and the gulls were fully prepared, ready for the final takeoff into the great beyond.

But I could not tune into the seagull’s frequency. I was merely a distant observer. I would likely miss the next launch as well.

The wind tugged at my jacket and I turned and headed into March.