Carved, crooked peaks outline themselves against a
Yellowing sky,
Deep crags littered with fertile eggs

Cawing to the firming moon,
We flap between their statuesque
Shoulders, draped in heavy fog
They don’t dance

Their shadows do,
Trembling freely outside of the rocks’ impenetrable cases,
Sharing secrets with the sand,
A peppered canvas,
Which formed when
The smeary stars
Cracked and crumbled

We gulls fly,
The stones too stiff
To crane back their necks
And see us,
Swooping, whooping,
Following an invisible course
Sliced into the sky