Mostly flying in huddles below a mop coloured sky. They flick and twist with the gusts of wind like they’re merely washing on a line. They feel each tug of wind with every minute feather, adjusting themselves, dancing with air to where the curls of wind are next, they dive into the valley of Looe harbour and up again, circling as if Looe is a fishing boat. Their dance partner is an invisible one, but one that is skilled in all types of choreography, and they just dance, regardless. The gulls just have to keep up.
They screech as they fly, I don’t know the reason for this behaviour, or why they scream as they do it, shouting their own name: it’s me, I’m here, watch out! It’s like they can’t see and it’s all a big game, in a brave attempt to not crash into one another during their morning rumba.
The behaviour of gulls isn’t quite known to me, apart from the more beastly bodied ones, undulating with lard as they follow those with food around, obviously wanting any crumb that happens to fall to the ground before another gull knocks it. They prey on the weaker looking human, which is most often the young or the old, assuming that wits are either gone for the day or easily distracted by sand and sea, or maybe not even there at all. But here I am – watching, hearing their call, whether it’s the first or their last, just knowing it’s there can’t always be enough. The land is weary and birds are wearier still of what we do and how we treat her – our land, our mother nature. Our birds see the plastic thinking it’s fish and eat it like it’s their last ever dish. Their stomachs become full, bleached with plastic, that pushes against their sides like plastic is alive and eating them from the inside. They die from plastic obesity, from lacking nutrition, from wires and plastic tubes distracting their vision. If you listen, you will hear them singing their swansong, their last call. When will losing one to our plastic cancer be too many?