They head east, ahead of the rain, a rattling gang with wings spread wide as innocence. They’re not one thing, not like starlings, moving in synchronicity, not like geese in their military formations; these guys are coasting, riding the sky like surfers, just cruising.
They head homewards in clumps and drifts, vague flocks and gatherings, and there’s always someone laughing, because it’s so funny, and there’s always someone threatening to spill into the road. Shoulders bump. Hips bump. Bags bump. Ponytails bounce. Heads lean in, because it’s so funny, it’s a secret. They are breathless with their own beauty.
These seagull kids are just spinning, cartwheeling, because there’s nothing as good as the spin, nothing as cool as this body: look, it can turn, leap, bend, and this movement isn’t ballet, it isn’t salsa, it isn’t ballroom, it’s just movement, fireworks under the skin.
Frank is keeping the bar at dVerse, and he’s asking for prose poems. Check it out. You’ll find something you love.