The wind blows where it will,
an aroma of wildflowers borne on its crest,
vapor cooling in the morning fog.
Aloft, in the heights, a vagrant seagull
calls for its companions, one lost
interlocutor surveying the lakeside fauna.
Dark clouds from the west hunt the seagull,
tracing its plaintive, hopeful wails,
plotting paths of unearthly surprise.
Cold gusts interrupt the sublime,
trading gentle scents of California poppies
for faint musty hints from ports afar.
A large mouth bass breaks the lake's surface,
reaching skyward for the first drops of rain.
Its return to the depths hails the first rumblings of thunder.
With a stroke of its wings, the seagull
glides further east; but not for long as the
call of the sea lures it back West toward its doom.
3 May 2007 by Glen Alan Woods
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