Flocks of dismal gulls fly out from behind skyscrapers

Like archer’s arrow penetrating the apple on the sky’s head.

They flap and float; little pieces of animated paper

Fleeing the easily angered sea they dread.

The sticky saltiness hiding in the heavy fog clings

fast to sea-hardy, labouring wings.

The leader’s wail signals every formation shift,

morphing the V, then repeating it swift.

Each new beat of wing brings a new bird’s eye view.

From smog stacks and cement to dories and shore.

With heart not urbane they just pass through.

They are the flight gods of ocean lover’s folklore.