c gulls

Last week I was walking across the University Bridge and saw a pair of seagulls. Fat-breasted with crisp white and gray feathers, they perched on the bridge railing and watched me approach in that sideways, flat-eyed bird way. When I got too close they flapped off. I watched them swoop low and land on a dock below. They watched me continue across the bridge; one flew off, then the other, circling and diving, as though sending me a message: I'm keeping an eye on you. One landed in the water. The other continued to circle, arcing away from his pal and then hurtling back to stick a landing not far away, barely rippling the surface of the cut. The pair swam together, paused, swam some more. Another pair of gulls flapped in, landed, swam close. For a minute I thought the four would swim on together, a convention of waterfowl, but they didn't, they remained two distinct pairs. My gulls--my birds--swam on in front, together, under the bridge, keeping a watchful eye for on-comers. I was swiftly forgotten.