”….he screeches, this is my no-good, barren,
motel-infested spit of sand—on which
he neither toils or spins, but grubs all day
on webbed feet and clever back-hinged knees,
now skittishly sidestepping a gusty
piece of plastic blown against his legs,
hopping to get it off, now shaking it
once or twice to make sure it's worthless
before he turns his face to the wind,
letting it smooth those fine fractious feathers.’
— From “Gulls in the Wind,’’ by Betsy Sholl, a former Maine poet laureate
”…he screeches, this is my no-good, barren,
motel-infested spit of sand—on which
he neither toils or spins, but grubs all day
on webbed feet and clever back-hinged knees,
now skittishly sidestepping a gusty
piece of plastic blown against his legs,
hopping to get it off, now shaking it
once or twice to make sure it's worthless
before he turns his face to the wind,
letting it smooth those fine fractious feathers.’’
—From “Gulls in Wind, ‘‘ by Betsy Sholl
