Andrew Macdonald

The gulls at Monterey Bay
The marred light trims the stock flight of birds.
It looms over their shot sounds stumped
with notions crested suns provide

as knowledge of physics prevails under such
ghoulish attires of bled wings their
fouled ovations we harvest.

Such set clamours with mechanics we scold

while brash rejoinders adhere a hate of each that tracks
nature’s quip in polished shards of broken ash

it reams us through our portion of the scene:

a naked beach to claim for our own
to tear their folly off the grain
when a moon’s crescent shapes

and the hope of aspect maintains
in the blight of these
littered nuance describes.