Seabird

There was a time before these brown buildings
touched the sky at the same point
as the trees.
She does not remember it
but many of the other gulls record the fact
so mournfully;
as high pitched
folk songs.
It used to be
much warmer here,
and greener.
A flight from
woods to
sea
much more
beautiful.

She, of course
has never seen
the water,
its glistening
has yet to
blind her
beads
at the break
of dawn
in August.

Yet somehow
she knows
that she will
find her way
there,
when the longing
grows so deep
that she
can no longer sing
a folk song
about an ocean
that she
cannot
smell.