Clamshell and Seagull

Under the black locust branches, I watch.

Eyes gazing through picket fence slats, decorated with yellow caution tape.

The winged form rises into direct sunlight and becomes a shadow.

I rise to watch it.

A seagull holds a clamshell in its beak.

The bird flutters up above me--its wings flapping, mouth holding a hard slick form.

An invisible apex is reached, the wings outspread against the sky.

Form frozen for a moment in time. Momentum arrested at a peak.

Down, down drops the shell through the air to a moss strewn rock below.

Sound rising from rock, shell, and gently fluttering wings.

Again and again the clamshell strikes solid green sea rock.

The shell falls off the table to white salt sand, or dips under the surface of dark murky waters.

It is retrieved and ascends to that uncertain height for another release to air below.

The crack echoes as the process repeats. The beak breaks the sealed line which holds the meat.

The sunset shines down on the mossy green rock.

Shadows gather in the valley surrounding the fiery last streaks of day. 

The gull still gathers shells to crack on hard surfaces.

The feasts are short and quick and satisfying.

The shells accumulate and overflow from the table of hard rock into waters and sands below.