Being there

On the bridge last week we found a seagull not dead but not moving—lying near the concrete railing and untroubled by our nearness. She was sick, I knew, because the walkway held many people and she could not have been incubating eggs. (I researched this later; I have never lived near the ocean and have never seen a gull nest. “Cliff edges and roof tops,” not crowded bridges, I learned. And from a related inquiry, with what: “anything that insulates, usually stringy objects, feathers, shredded paper, plastic, straw, thin branches, pieces of cloth.”) A pulpy newspaper rested nearby but not under her.

Maybe out of respect for life, being there felt invasive. When I was young I visited the beach and imagined it an accomplishment to catch a gull. I only stepped close enough for a picture.