A lobster boat steams toward the horizon.
The clear sun soothes the morning sky.
Buoys bob up and down,
up and down.

Two seagulls perch on the riprap
and listen to the slaps and slurps of the sea below.

With unspoken consent, they take off and glide,
lower and lower,
lower and lower,
to within a foot of the water.

They unfurl their wings
and gently flap in unison.
They continue south,
never climbing, never alighting.

The tips of their wings barely tap the ocean;
their impressions vanish
without trace.

- Bob Miller