For most gulls, it's not flying that matters,
It's eating...Après Richard Bach
A Prius driver
avoids running
the bundle over, but
it's not road-kill,
grayish feathers,
ocean breezes
slightly ruffle.
After gulping
a flipped
cigarette butt,
crazy with pain,
it dies in flight-
heart thumping
wildly -eyes
going from limpid
to opaque
as it falls -
slamming
to earth
by gravity.
The next car,
an RV,
flattens it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem