gulls cawed, so loud their calls
echoed off the cliffs behind us, a ghost flock answering,
though not shrill enough to rouse us
they flew crisscross patterns
and dove into the surf, but not one landed
on the carrion strewn across the sands
not like the vultures of my youth,
ravenous black hawks that began their devouring
at the first scent of death, or a moment before
no, these creatures merely called
to one another, a curious conversing
about the carnage below
perhaps their strange song
our dirge, as they swooped to and fro, wings
slicing currents carrying our souls
Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
gulls cawed, so loud their calls
echoed off the cliffs behind us, a ghost flock answering,
though not shrill enough to rouse us
they flew crisscross patterns
and dove into the surf, but not one landed
on the carrion strewn across the sands
not like the vultures of my youth,
ravenous black hawks that began their devouring
at the first scent of death, or a moment before
no, these creatures merely called
to one another, a curious conversing
about the carnage below
perhaps their strange song
our dirge, as they swooped to and fro, wings
slicing currents carrying our souls
Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944
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