The gull pulls bags from trash and drags them clear.
He’s big as a cat, a blur of snow and soot.
He pokes until debris spills down the pier.
He’s clumsy, and somehow he’s lost a foot.
Chewed off? A winter fishing line? Wedged in boards

?
The stump’s a small sharp spear that stings the bird
If ground is touched. He soars to foggy scree,
Alights but flaps to halfway hang in air, spurred
By pain to perform endless pirouettes.
The bay’s warm surge troubles the cooler sea.
The fishing fleet returns as silhouettes.
These hours are small escapes, reprieves, rewards,
Summer the center we try to pretend
Will keep us strong, like love, and never end.