New places. Same simple joys.
Three boats.
Three ropes.
Two knots.
The third rope was floating in the water.
This seemed important.
The seagull standing on that boat disagreed.
He was busy looking at a piece of bread.
It floated six inches from the hull.
The boat moved seven.
The bread remained where it was.
The seagull looked at the bread.
Then at the boat.
Then back at the bread.
By the time he had completed this investigation, breakfast was nine inches away.
The tide had begun its work.
New Place
The little white boat drifted slowly from the wall.
Not dramatically.
There were no storms.
No heroic waves.
Just blue water nudging the hull with small wet sounds.
Lap. Lap. Lap.
The harbor smelled of salt, old rope, warm wood, and something being fried somewhere beyond the white buildings.
The seagull remained aboard.
Leaving now would suggest poor planning.
A second boat passed nearby.
Another seagull stood on its bow.
They looked at each other.
One was travelling.
One was technically parked.
Neither mentioned the difference.
The boats touched gently.
Tok.
The second seagull stepped across.
Now the drifting boat had two passengers.
This improved nothing.
New Friends
Near the stone wall sat a third boat.
A third seagull occupied it.
He had been watching the entire operation with professional concern.
As the drifting boat approached, he leaned forward.
The two passengers leaned forward.
The gap narrowed.
Three feet.
Two.
One.
The third seagull hopped aboard.
The empty boat rocked behind him.
Now there were three.
The harbor widened ahead.
Sunlight broke into little silver pieces across the turquoise water.
A bell rang somewhere uphill.
The frying smell became stronger.
All three birds turned their heads at exactly the same time.
Priorities had survived the journey.
Same Feeling
The loose boat eventually reached the opposite side of the harbor.
Its rope caught around an old wooden post.
The boat swung once.
Twice.
Stopped.
The three seagulls looked around.
Different wall.
Different boats.
Different patch of sunlight.
One gull pecked at the bench.
Another inspected the rope.
The third found something beneath the rear seat.
A crumb.
Very small.
Possibly ancient.
He swallowed it anyway.
The other two stared.
He stared back.
Then, from the promenade above—
a child dropped a corner of bread.
It landed on the water.
All three seagulls froze.
The bread floated six inches from the hull.
Three heads turned toward it.
Then toward one another.
The boat moved seven inches.
Nobody waited for an investigation this time.
Three white wings opened at once.
Ffflap.
The boat rocked gently behind them.
The loose rope floated beside it.
Apparently tomorrow already had transportation.
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