They loiter in every fish market in the world-
Some nap on a breeze above neon signs,
Others on the giant palm trees by the shore;
Some sit on the jagged tips of the moors,
Or on the walkways to the selling carts,
Chased by waddling and laughing children,
Arms extended, fingers fanning the air...

We share the smell of crab and tiger shrimp,
Where fish are stacked head to head, eye to eye,
By the hundreds as rainbow colored corpses
In crates, on nets, like ice packed ears of corn;  
Each wears the same stunned expression,  
At that instant they were suddenly torn  
To end up here in a final transgression
To sustain us and these birds another day.  

How the gulls cruise about our trays of jewels
And perform their chants of common chorus
Known to each human ear, the song of the wild ocean!

They watch our silent parades on the pavements
And sing in languages with different accents
Known only to them; yet we listen
As they hover close to us with wide wings,
Like outcasts from the seas, homeless immigrants,
Who have chosen to live among our fish stalls,
Begging for a handout or a scrap of shell,
To remind us of the of mariners we once were,
Rejoicing in their song, guiding us to the good land.