Glistening seagulls don't complain
about the wet, about the rain,
floating on a hard sea wind
just outside my window pane.
Crashing blows come wave by wave,
flinging surf-born stormy spray,
Herring swimming 'neath white caps,
don't know how cold it is today.
The seagull roosts upon a log,
blending into racing fog.
Splat'ring dots of rain on glass;
ocean sands turn into bog.
Folded wings in restful pose
spread a bit in gusty blows,
then settle back. I see it all
in misty sea dreams while I doze
beside my window, the sea my show.