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

Cawing to the firming moon,We flap between their statuesqueShoulders, draped in heavy fogThey don’t dance

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

We gulls fly,The stones too stiffTo crane back their necksAnd see us,Swooping, whooping,Following an invisible courseSliced into the sky