making do

the lone gull eyes me carefully --
I am no starfish, that's for sure;
just a pobrecito in the rain,
some strange creature, lost,
out of place, as sheets of rain
pelt the soggy grass that is now
more than ready for winter's sleep --
another inconvenience to avoid
as he pecks the soil for the inevitable
drowning worms --
not exactly fresh mackerel,
but they will have to do for this morning,
as the gale is inhospitable
to flight over the grey water of the harbor --
land-bound, as am I,
he does as I do,
in a gull sort of way,
he makes do,
I make do,
and we both exist that way.

October 18, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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