Behind me, the brabble of seagulls drowns the waves slapping the jagged jaw of the shoreline. In the distance, two white seagulls attack a larger gray fowl of the sea. It’s a picturesque dogfight, slow moving, and graceful like the prop planes of World War II. They move in an aerial jitterbug of life and death. Weaving, gliding, and accelerating before me as they jockey for position. Descending violently towards terra firma—their wings thrashing, and beaks snapping—a single feather floats.
I drop my journal and raise my camera, focusing on the goliath Gray. I am a voyeur to their violence. I move forward, “A perfect shot!” I say, taking the picture—nothing happens.
Still moving forward, I examine the camera—I forgot to turn it on—I fix the problem.
Still moving forward, I bring the camera back to my eye. The birds take flight, Gray in front of white. The antagonist sways to the left, then shutters to the right. The gulls match it’s grace.
Through the viewfinder, the Gray seems to close. I let go off the camera, and it slaps my chest. I focus on the narrative as the scene unfolds before me. “It’s to close,” I say to the wind. I see the Gray’s black eyes. “Too close,” I say. The Gray blinks at me; it will not surrender its path, my path. I drop to my knees before the collision, and I can feel the downdraft of his flight on the back of my neck.
“Chicken!” the Gray says flying over me.
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