Searching for food, a beak tapped on a seashell.

The head rose at a barking sound.

Too slow to take off,

The gull flapped her wings.

As the dog ran right at her,

The owner called out to him.

Blood on the beach.

A screech in the air.

Grains upon grains that crunched under my boots.

I was too slow.

My boots were too heavy.

The air now too silent.

The sand too bloody.

The owner too distant.

The dog too caught up in what he thought was play.

The gull too upset to fly.

I yelled at the owner, who shrugged.

Whimpering, the dog retreated.

He rubbed the seashell out of his wound.

My eyebrows rose.

The lapping waves washed away the red.

The bird snapped at me and I stepped back.

With a sassy mew, the gull helped herself to another shell.