The wind is whirling the gulls
over a white-capped sea
here, where Pacific ends

On our westward way
we seek by this wild coast
what we know not yet

Only the echoing cry
of the circling gulls,
red-tipped beaks
glassy-eyed
uncaring
if they know,
or know not,
what message is borne
on the wind's gusts
or rolls ashore
on the breaking waves
carried five thousand
sea miles by an ocean pulse

The wind is chill

We clamber back
into the calm cabin
of our vehicle,
head south

Perhaps,
tomorrow,
we may be wiser
than the gulls.

 © Tom Berman

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