BY CAROL BARRETT

I think of gulls as gray, but here they don dark hats

over white collars, their soft sides lighter than wingspread

from the usual vantage on shore. They face due west:

keynote speaker, rolling waves strewn with seaweed,

occasional log brimming with barnacles, perhaps

a delicious catch of crab, hulls slung overboard

from a dory trailing the horizon. Some fidget in their seats,

as if to reach for glasses to read the program, jot down

groceries for the return trip home. They lift palmate feet

to permit a latecomer down the row, then settle in

to the message from the deep: I am here. I will always be.

I provide for my children, my children’s children.

Do not waste my gifts, for a storm is coming, yellow light

already swaying the tips of waves. Know each feather

has purpose, each hooded eye its own vision, each

lumbering breaker timed perfectly with circling stars.

In cold, huddle closer. In warmth, stretch out along

the fullness of my blessing, dreams rising above the sand.

Carol Barrett holds doctorates in both clinical psychology and creative writing. She coordinates the Creative Writing Certificate Program at Union Institute & University. Her books include Calling in the Bones, (Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press), Drawing Lessons (Finishing Line Press), and Pansies (Sonder Press), finalist for the 2020 Oregon Book Award in Nonfiction.

Process Note: This poem emerged as I watched seagulls at the beach, and was surprised to see their linear formation; this took me to similarities with human rituals. Ultimately what united birds and people for me was the spiritual dimension.