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Sometimes a seagull has nothing to do with the sea,
Or wings with flight, or you with me.
I heard a disturbance in spring, high under a large white cloud;
Seagulls were circling far up—and they were loud.
I didn’t understand this airy ritual of sound.
I was ignorant as I pondered on the ground.
A lament? A fight? A celebration of spring?
Singers, happy, sounding sad when they sing?
Could seagulls, perhaps, prefer the air
though things they eat don’t live up there?
And what of that one, aloft between land and sea,
Strangely absent from their song,
the one perfectly silent—as you have been to me?
