Sea shadows

A moment of grace yesterday. When seagulls came to eat the bread I had thrown on the roof across the way. A large black shadow ricocheted across the kitchen, rippling over the sunny table, flicking stove, sink, floor, like a leaf tumbled in a hurricane, barely seen before it is gone. Another and then another. The kitten, Moon, leaped onto the sill, head outside, transfixed by their proximity, for the birds were swooping on bread only 15 feet from his nose, their bodies larger than his. They came in wary, swift, circling in arcs that covered my whole block, coming close, and feinting away, and rising again, taking in kitten, windows, trees, unknowns everywhere, and the bread, the beckoning bread, again and again. The little bright cat quivered in every muscle, his gold eyes luminous with wonder, and the shadows of sea birds shafted through my kitchen.