Shocking to me: the solitary man
perched high on a girder of the Whitestone Bridge,
until his yellow hard hat bolts
into sight, his wind-burned face,
legs that ride a wedge between sky and sea. Closer,
and more startling still:
grasping a tiny whisk broom, he dusts the ledge
with a motion delicate and precise--
a jeweler brushing a watch's gears.

The gulls must be curious too,
about this creature with a head
the color of the sun,
rooted in air but flying with them.
They shriek, circle and dip,
brushing whorls against sky
to match his lifted fingertips.

I suppose their keen eyes
detect the dust motes as they fly
from his prickly straw, swirl
in currents above them and come to settle
in the nearly invisible spaces
between their own ruffled feathers.

As the man and gulls recede
from sight, then merge to gray,
I can only wonder if this man
will be riveted tomorrow
to jackhammers and resistant earth.

And his fallen gulls:
reborn as feather dusters that hide
in the hard-to-reach corners
of hardware store shelves, dirty
before they even begin work.
Or dyed the jewel tones
of Faberge eggs--the fabulous
plumage of Easter hats
shivering a little, in shame.

"Gulls and the Man," Pivot, Fall 1998