Shyly quiet,
hunched in servile pretense,
the white coat
of one seagull crunches old
paper, ruffles
wind-bunched feathers and
waits astride
a cliff-top fence while I, car
encased, unwrap
my lunch and admire views
in a welcome break,
but yellow-eyed tactics strut
a strategy, to win
open windows and ******
guilt in people
who throw half-eaten crusts
as easy pickings.
Guile rewarded, fights begin
for wily wings
soon muster to shove others
in screaming war
as one feeding bird becomes
transformed to four
then ravenous dozens until
not a crumb left
as I close the car door on yet
more skirmish.
At hunger's worst, its gnaw
serves self first
by law of nature in the raw.