I’m
sitting
on a rock
a thousand
times larger
than I am
watching
the waves
roll to froth.
Two seagulls
are resting near,
one to my left, and
one to my right, calling
to each other with adorable
clucks. They check the shallow
pools for crabs. They check on me—
the smiling human with crossed legs
eying them down. And I’m aware of
chance. I’m aware of their wary
awareness. I’m wearily aware
that there’s a good chance

I’m sitting on
dry bird
shit.