I want to write of
Crows or doves,
Majestic or soft.
But it is gulls that cry
across my sky.
Fattened on scraps
Stout bills wailing
Right down to me.
Their unhinging jaws
Make me perfect prey. Pray.
I've seen the mob,
Preying on the weak. Praying.
God, that screeching
it's enough to make you
write of crows or doves.
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