Gulls are common in my neighborhood and we have at least three different varieties. They fly to park benches where immigrants feed them, they stand guard atop light poles at busy intersections, they soar above treetops and dive deep into the lake. But they never—I mean NEVER—light upon the grassy spread used by sunbathers and ballplayers.
Now here was an explorer. He watched people as he walked. Sometimes he'd come in contact with something on the ground that would unsettle him and he'd stretch his wings out, fluttering them a bit to regain his balance. He made me smile.
I watched him for a while. Had I encouraged him, I think he might have come close to me. But that would be a bad dynamic for his future. He couldn't depend on people for his survival.
I admired his spunk—his boldness in going where no gull had gone before. How can people not notice such a brazen act of nonconformity? How can people go to a park shared by dozens of species of birds and plants but focus only on their tan lines or cellphone conversation or workout time?
I'm grateful to have seen the gull. I'm concerned about how much I don't notice in the world. I want to absorb it all.
Are you seeing everything around you?
