Ravens, Crows, and Seagulls

At twelve-thirty in the afternoon, I close my eyes and listen. In the darkness, I hear the cries of seagulls. Their sound reminds me of a fishing village off the coast of Italy: ancient, red houses built into the hillside, families sunning themselves on the rocky shore, and a green boat bobbing in the light speckled water.

Then I open my eyes. Another school day. I sit on a plastic bench next to a trashcan overflowing with crushed orange juice boxes and half eaten corn dogs. Seagulls wheel the white sky, crows perch in pine trees and a lone raven sits on the cafeteria roof. They wait while the last children run to class, the bell loudly ringing, and then they swoop down. Lunchtime. Two seagulls fight over a slice of pepperoni pizza. The larger one rips off the crust and gulps it down like he would a small, silver fish. His opponent moves on to a sesame bun. The raven pulls a slice of cheese toast apart with his sharp, black beak as the crows devour muffins, french fries, orange peels soggy with chocolate milk, and ketchup smeared coffee cake. There's more than enough junk food for all.

Twenty miles from the ocean, I wonder how the seagulls picked this as their lunch spot. Is this a daily commute, a 9 to 5 destination only, from which they return to their perches under the pier at night? Or are these seagulls urban dwellers, the descendants of gulls who went searching for a better life-- tired of the competition down at the beach-- and ended up staying and raising their chicks in the hot, dry Valley, a spread of concrete, car dealerships, and big supermarket centers, with no water in sight except for the turquoise ovals and rectangles of swimming pools? And if the latter is true, how would they feel if one day a soft breeze brought them back to where they belong, to the ocean?