RUMINATIONS IN THE PARKING LOT

Why are the sea gulls shopping here,
if not for "White Stag, No Boundaries" or 
"Faded Glory?" Is there some other story? 
Coffee, tea, or you, or just practicing beach 
and gray-sky calls over concrete, carts
and Handicapped Blue? This turf is for blackbirds 
of the piercing cry, insolent strut and beady 
stare. Not for you to straddle halogen 
in your evening wear of dove-gray, black tie.  
Not for you to play harlot in this car-lot 
of no swells, no breakers.  

What lures you, displaced gracefuls--calls 
you from rides on a rogue wind, pushing lace-
topped tides to stock minnow meals 
in pellucid sloughs? You've paid your dues, 
and dour land birds are the parking lot denizens.  
Surely you harbor an unnatural appetite 
for hors de'oeuvres that do not swim 
or paddle, though you buzz pedestrians 
on stony reaches, as when dive-bombing 
the deep or cruising the beaches.  

For whatever draws you to the superstore, 
super birds, I pray you reap Neptune's pardon 
as you vie for the rail over the holy grail 
of the Wal-Mart sign where no whitefish, black 
fish, shrimp or snail, no fiddler crab scuttles 
for safety.  And, may our God absolve us 
our sins of the past--our ever-advancing 
tsunamis of concrete, steel, and glass.