As I walk through the heart of Dublin city
past the Claddagh shops and pubs,
by the foul smelling river, I see an eternity of
sickly birds.
Disguised as arched grey clouds,
a less-hazardous smog than the city is used to,
their presence alters the wind when they are united
in flight.
The gulls attack the unsuspecting crumbs, paying no mind to
the camera-wielding tourist who avoids the width of the
broad wings. Like vultures to a festering corpse they dine
in solitude.
Quick to detest, eager to turn away,
we go about our business,
unaware that we are no different than the gulls of
the Liffey.
At first, second, third glance, the gulls
are nothing but winged vermin,
overpopulating benches, streets, and statues. Lonely,
rejected creatures.
Like a ravenous famine, humanity swarms
as it chases after escaped longings.
As the gulls starve, we starve for much
much more.
Weaving through the heart of Dublin, we swarm
like the Gulls of the Liffey
in a desperate search for our only chance
of survival.
