The Seagull 2 Poem by Morgan Michaels

laughed outloud at the way
the alarmingly large bird (two feet) ,
stopping short our penumbra, studied us
from out one viridian eye with hope,
and alternately, from the other, with suspicion.
Strange. And still it came.
What did it see in us? We'd no wings,
popcorn, french-fries, doritos, the usual enticements-
maybe it was just people-watching.
At any rate, looking it full in the current eye,
I shrugged, brushed myself off, stood stiffly up. It
squealed, wheeled, aimed itself at the harbor,
hopped a few steps, lifted its wings,
wobbled into the gray
uttering cries of defiance and alarm
and planed off over the vans, over the roofs
and canopies, green, tan and bone;
over the dozing heads of would-be passengers,
bent over their timetables,
disappearing into the shimmer
just as the bus arrived-the sixty-four
again, the same beefy lass driving as before.
So we rubbed that bird, too, from our eyes,
gathered up our gear, boarded the bus
fed the fare box two bucks and wondered
how the meeting was important, certain it was.