A lone seagull sobs for the stolen summer.
The sand grasses sough for the sand.
The sand, so cool underfoot it seems moist,
Sounds not at all, but casts a wistful glance
Back to the sun days it made the bennies dance.
But the gull will not be consoled.
The garbage men have scuttled inland, suspicious
Of a winter cruel as hunger, solitary as God,
Wistful as Labor Day.
Larry Lang