Seagulls

by . .

poetry

This morning message is work in progress, for sure. It means something, but doesn't mean it as fully as it might.

I'm posting it to keep encouraging myself to post snippets and snoopets.

For breakfast, man made sausage, so I sausage,
And squint askew as Ra holds high his disk.
With no time for poetic inspiration,
He casts aside the slinking clouds of mist.

The seagulls, noisy poopers, have come inland.
With stupid orange mouths agape, they wheel,
Ungainly flap, and float, til they spy refuse,
Then land to fight amongst themselves and squeal.

On high, in blue, airliners cut a contrast,
Speed straight where birds must fart around like clods. 
Do seagulls ever wonder what a plane is?
Do they believe in jets, as we do gods?