Portrait of gull The wheeling seagulls squaw their juveniles squeek and somehow they communicate if not actually speak they invoke music and rhythm they are not witless birds their garden dwelling cousins imitating anything they hear solving mazes and boxes and levers and switch the bolder gulls even spy chips which they snatch from the fingers of tourists they menace the skies at night they are relentlessly loud the cloud carries them to rattle every rooftop in town they tear the bin bags down and scatter the contents about better than the bin men can they are cruel and cunning and perfect as a species can be my own personal harpies sent to insomniatise me
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