by Maggi Roark
Walking alone along
a deserted pier in the early
morning mist, I heard a frenzy
of wings and screeching.
Near the top of a lamppost
a seagull hung, upside down
thirty feet in the air. One
yellow foot was tangled
in a fragment of fishing line
left behind among the plastic bags
and bait and stale French fries.
Desperate to pull away
he crashed and slammed
against the iron pole.
Beneath him I stood frozen
until his high-pitched wails
jump-started my fingers
to dial for help. A recorded
message asked for my number.
I watched his movements slow
Help’s coming, I whispered, hold on.
But his weary neck hung loose
defeated wings fell open. Silence
thickened into the damp morning air.