The Seagull

 

A storm was brewing on the horizon. Heavy, dark musty clouds collided ferociously, sparking shards of blinding fury. The sound of anger resonated through the air. A delicate sound of thunder.

Angry waves crashed into the rocky shore, throwing foam all over. Blades of grass were thrashing wildly in the wind. Grains of sand rode the gusts, mingling desperately mid air, looking for a way out.

Up on the hills, he watched the show, unblinkingly. The wind went around him, grazing his senses. Meaningless specks of matter brought far away smells to his nostrils. He smelled the world around him. The trees, the flowers, the animals, the chars from long gone fires.

The wind hit against him hard and furious. He raised his gaze to the scorching clouds above. The silver streaks burned deep lines into his retinas. He faced them fearlessly, defiantly. I do not fear you.

The sea was boiling furiously, grudgingly, angry, slushing around mindlessly, like a blind raging wounded monster. There was no logic, no reason, no purpose.

“It’s time”, he thought. Slowly he unfolded his wings. The wind caught the tips of his feathers, clutching furiously at him, tugging at his bones. He let himself rise to his feet. The wind almost whisked him away. Almost but not quite.

He closed his eyes and arched his wings, catching the wind, lifting sharply from the cliffs.

“No”, he thought, “You got this all wrong. I do not fear you. You do not own me. I own you.”

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