Great gulls wheeling silently down to the dump of this city,
Crying in full-throated anger as they climb their way out,
Poisoning the very air they breathe with all of their waste,
Soaring on wings of acute, pointed, lustrous magnificence.

Wafting along, pushing their paths through the firmament,
Red-billed, and Sooty, and Blue-backed, beautifully soaring,
Resolutely striving for altitude, gaining ground foot by foot,
Or drifting to land on the smooth places where they rest.

Lining up in the early morning, warming up in the sun’s heat,
Filled with nervous tension, wheeling across infinite skies,
Turning and twisting, snaking slowly among the wispy clouds,
Rolling up to the gate, dropping off the tired passengers.

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