They’d eat their own shit

if they had to

to make it back to sea

where they will breed in great numbers

on bare ground between rocks

and feed their young

the meat of other gulls.

But for two weeks they are with us, strange

in these trees, their orange, reptilian feet

clutching the elms’ thin branches,

and I think I can feel the earth’s curve

beneath our rented room.

I can believe again the earnest lies

I’ve told my sons.

Last night I went in

just to watch them sleep, lifted the covers

to see how far they’d grown away from me.

I wanted to laugh out loud at the little we’ve

lived on, or stand over them a while

and listen for my blood—

like listening to the ocean in a shell.

I wanted to go to those cliffs

where the birds have flown for centuries

over the downed wrecks,

as though, airborne, they could escape

every accident or

wrong choice even the news of deficient genes—

the moments the virus takes hold

and the cell splits…

If the earth’s a grave, here

it’s opening.

In a week or so the fields along the river

will show a dusting of green

as they follow the jet stream’s month-

long sweep north-

east to the Atlantic, homing.