Seagull
Seagull perches
on a chaise lounge
stoic,
pensive
overlooking ducks,
a lone coot on a small lake.
I’ve heard they’re
intelligent and long-living,
that they’ll eat
almost anything.
They can drink saltwater,
excrete the salt
through their nostrils,
shake it from their bill.
I think of Chekhov,
Richard Bach, Hitchcock.
Years ago I read about
a girl who was stranded
on a small island
with no food or fresh water.
She survived on seagulls.
Wrung their necks,
ate them raw,
drank their blood.
This seagull preens,
mournfully squawks.
Gray and white plumage
rustles in the breeze
as it gauges distance,
spots its mate, takes off
beyond restaurants,
dumpsters and parking lots,
flying further inland
looking for another shore.
About the Author: Jonathan K. Rice edited Iodine Poetry Journal for seventeen years. He is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Killing Time (2015), Ukulele and Other Poems (2006) and a chapbook, Shooting Pool with a Cellist (2003), all published by Main Street Rag Publishing. He is also a visual artist. His poetry and art have appeared in numerous publications, including Cold Mountain Review, Comstock Review, Diaphanous, Empty Mirror, Gargoyle, Inflectionist Review, Levure Litteraire, The Main Street Rag, Wild Goose Poetry Review and the anthologies, Hand in Hand: Poets Respond to Race and The Southern Poetry Anthology VII: North Carolina.
More by Jonathan K. Rice
Image Credit: Chase Dimock “The Seagull Who Stole My Taco” (2020)
As It Ought To Be 