I no longer reside with gulls.

I no longer reside with gulls.

This is hard to believe after so many years. Thirty-eight years by a fresh water lake,

Gulls were everywhere. Eating out of the trash barrels, scavenging in the streets, circling the sky overhead, resting on fence posts, in the vacant soccer field, skipping over the sand beach.

From a distance their white bodies looked like sails.

Like the pigeon, they are a bit of a pest—especially when picnicking. If not careful, they would swoop down and rip the bun out of your hand. With cautious hops they’d edge closer to your blanket to see what they could steal.

These are Chicago gulls, cagey, street-smart, running in gangs.

 

Now, living in Michigan, I am struck by the fact that there are no gulls.

I live in the interior, no longer by open water. The woods are full of birds—but no gulls.

I’m feeling ambivalent, not sure I miss them or merely the idea of them. After so many years . . .

Shouldn’t I wax nostalgic, reveal a hidden longing, be burned by memories?

Only this: I no longer reside among gulls.