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Old Gull

It drags its broken wing like a bad divorce. God only knows how it's lasted so many weeks this way, the soar

far from its reach as requited love. It survives by staying close to the sea, the faithful webbing

of its feet all it can count on to flee the grasp of feral cats. The cruel winter wind

plasters its feathers to its breast, twisting nearly off its dangling wing scribbling on the beach

the undecipherable hieroglyphs of its destiny, its glaucous eyes unblinking, fixed on the rising tide

reaching toward it like a savior to wash sparklingly clean its agonizing slate of survival.

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