The wind is whirling the gulls <br />over a white-capped sea <br />here, where Pacific ends <br /> <br />On our westward way <br />we seek by this wild coast <br />what we know not yet <br /> <br />Only the echoing cry <br />of the circling gulls, <br />red-tipped beaks <br />glassy-eyed <br />uncaring <br />if they know, <br />or know not, <br />what message is borne <br />on the wind’s gusts <br />or rolls ashore <br />on the breaking waves <br />carried five thousand <br />sea miles by an ocean pulse <br /> <br />The wind is chill <br /> <br />We clamber back <br />into the calm cabin <br />of our vehicle, <br />head south <br /> <br />Perhaps, <br />tomorrow, <br />we may be wiser <br />than the gulls.<br /><br />Tom Berman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ocean-vista-with-gulls/
