Inklings 2020

SEABIRD Tomas Esber The mild whiteness of your barren front streaked with squalls of gray, tinged with youthful dusk, is occasioned by a starless night. Why do you mock me, gull, while you graze the heavens with your feathered brush? My seat carves its weight into the ground, as the weight of air unfurls and trickles down like loose threads above me. Your pronged mark riddles across the tenuous shore, before the relentless ebb erases its fine print like wracked souls washed away, like the evanescent Davy Jones. 23