There is a screech gulls make
that belongs to water,
the chime of sailboat masts,
and ducks alongside boat sterns,
but sounds odd in a parking lot
They bicker and scream,
pull food from one another
like siblings in continual fight.
In winter, they huddle on ice floes.
On the boat, we cover when they fly,
Just the same, when one hops on a lone foot,
I contemplate what adventure left him to hobble,
And cut up plastic
since my daughter warned me soda-circles
strangle gull necks.