The wave washed up the beach, and the foam bubbled like peroxide in a wound. The seagulls dove on the leavings, picking at them like English villagers around a market day stall. No shopper's handbook do they need to distinguish what they would eat from other items, despite the infinite variety they have to choose from. I think if they were transported to a desert they could choose between the dead scorpion and the dead rattler.

Have you ever seen a gull drink? It will tilt its head back to allow the liquid to swirl down its throat, using almost the same motion they employ to emote an especially raucous cry.

Time catches up with a gull as it will for all living things, and as I strolled along, I came across a mass of feathers and bones protruding from a crypt of sand. I paused to wonder how long a gull has, in how many glorious sunsets it soars, and is it time enough for the wonder of the million tones of reds, purples and oranges to be appreciated by its feeble mind. Perhaps one morning, to a human, fishing on a creosoted jetty, packs more punch than all the gull's days soaring the breezes.

It may be fluent at picking its currents, i.d.ing the updraft, sensing the downdraft, but does it thrill to the beauty of the sun that heats the air to float the gull high over the breakers? Is it a malcontent among the denizens of the shore, not knowing the attraction that brings millions to the special places in the world where the sea meets the land?

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