GRAY GULL                                                              by Connie Claire Szarke


There’s a big old gray gull,
hangs out alone on West Arm Bay.

While a hundred sleek white birds perch
on a neighbor’s boat canopy, blue under a thick coat
of white-wash,
old gray parks solo on mine.

He swims alone.

Flies alone.

And when he stands,
he stands alone
on bowed legs.

I’ve never seen a gull die;
It seems a drawn out affair.

When winter comes, I wonder,
where will he go?

Will he return next summer?