There is no chirping from gulls, no chatter back and forth,
No songs at sunrise or ushering in night. No lonely calls
For a lover to echo back. Among gulls
There is only screaming. Screeches that rise
And fall with their flight, Shrieks that collide midair,
Intersecting, overlaying, converging again and again. Their message –
If there was one – lost in the squall.
Sarette Danae is a nomadic writer who enjoys a good fork in the road or turn of phrase; she’s currently searching for her muse, as well as a cure for fernweh.