a nest is dug in the sand, a sweeping motion dusts the tops; a slight of compassion from a fingerless hand. and we are born. serving our life sentence, whatever that is.

some are fortunate enough to experience a quick death, but most are gripped in the snare of a seagull’s jaw. the rest of them take advantage of this, those opportunists grazing on the very spoils of which they ridicule us for. a flock of seagulls, canadian seagulls, ripping at newborn flesh as if killing for progress.

one holds the shell, and the rest are satisfied.

we cross the sands peacefully; making our way to the tidal pool, and they ambush us from their northern borders. the skies, the north they have come from. eh? is their call, as the murderous flocks converge overcasting our territory with gibberish and maple syrup.

sending some of us back to the wishing wells that once used to provide money for candy. but they’re still throwing their coins in, and their two cents are ruining everything.