Like balled-up socks spilled from a drawer, the flock spreads out as if the parking lot was sky. The woman in the only car idling there takes off her glasses to imagine the seagulls as eggshells. She had been walking on plenty of those lately, her house ricocheting with grief.
Plenty of eggshells in a sky made of idling seagulls; balled-up like grief, they ricochet from car to house, and spread out. The woman in the car on the parking lot takes off the glasses lately spilled like socks from a drawer. She imagines her lot: there is only grief.
Plenty of eggshells in a sky made of idling seagulls; balled-up like grief, they ricochet from car to house, and spread out. The woman in the car on the parking lot takes off the glasses lately spilled like socks from a drawer. She imagines her lot: there is only grief.
