She didn’t cry when the
seagulls died, or seemed
to, their nest uprooted
with a handy plank and
discarded in a slick black
trash bag on the roof. 
She didn’t cry then. She
cried later, when she couldn’t 
find her keys, and when 
she sat with friends 
discussing completely
unrelated things, and 
when she went to check
her email. Grief is funny
like that. 

The birds were
okay. Watched over as
they had been they 
never knew someone
checked every morning
to see how they were,
named their babies,
worried over flying
lessons. They didn’t 
know how much they
were loved, messengers
of hope in a concrete
landscape. At first
she felt stupid for
grieving. Idiotic birds
making messes. Most
people don’t even like
seagulls. But then she
realized, the loving was
in the seeing, and most
people are blind.