Flight

The seat is wet at the Harbor View. Through the window, dusty evidence of a gull hitting the glass, wings spread into a wide quarter moon traced in shockwaves where she struck. Her beak—an angular void in the center; this is enough to ruin everything, enough to press stop and rewind your song indefinitely—but then you start thinking: If you were a bird, you would be a frigate made of lead, no, titanium. You would dive in unrestrained, smash through people's double-panes, into their screams, pick clams clean, lap up leftover wine and tear through their tedious hallways, explode the western wall.