Gulls Follow a Plow
By Ethel Romig Fuller
The seagulls always sense the time somehow –
Incited by primordial hungerings –
The very dawn a farm lad starts to plow;
And come by cohorts inland, their great wings
Sails billowing against the primrose east,
To follow with the grackles, row by row,
The share that noses a Lucullan feast
From soil where corn and pumpkins soon will grow.
And who shall blame a lad, if suddenly
The white thorn hedges turn a foamy blur …
The acrid dust to salty tang of sea?
If aboard a schooner, he careens with her –
The while he toils behind his plodding team –
To ports on purple coast-lines in a dream?