Seagull

Bleak sun. Curling waves. Short, stubby grass. Hands everywhere. Corn chips scattered. Guacamole unopened. A faded picnic rug.

Seagull watching. Eyes beady. Flickering. Moving up and down. Stringy legs step carefully, one at a time. Wings rustle, flap, shiver in blue light, rain dances from the sky. 

Silence. 

And then, running.

Racing.

Scooping the chip up and turning away, soft, white head shinning.

He looks back towards them. They stare at him, his plush feathers worn and weakened. They are standing and laughing, curved fingers, pointing as he makes his great escape. He carries the corn chip in his mouth; letting the salvia warm it up, turn it soggy. He lifts himself up into the wind, stretches his wings – his long, beautiful wings, and glides. 

The chip dangles from his mouth. He bites down on it and then – then it falls. It collapses into the sea. He watches it tumble, takes a gulp of stagnant air, swoops, and follows it.