Gulls

My father was a birder. Gulls were not his birds. But he taught me something about gulls and language: there is no such thing as a seagull. There is only the gull.

Seagull is sentimental. Holidaytime and anthropomorphic storybooks. Gull sticks in the gullet.

August and the gulls are nearing the end of their breeding season. By day they spread through space; crowd the pavement upright alongside smaller plumper pigeons; crouch alert on black sands at low tide; stand aloof alone atop shops, statues, spires. At night their staccato shrills slice the courtyard, cut glass and pierce my dreams.

Now dawn: not exactly picturesque, this stop-and-start with the small terrier by my side, weaving round cement slabs daubed with dull graffiti. Cars vans trucks tear over the highbridge that arches across the Clyde, touching down on the edge of Tradeston.

The gulls dip down and out. Layers of movement, human-animal-machine.

The first time I nearly tread on the bloodied body of a gull splayed on the pavement at the edge of the industrial park, I yanked instinctively on the lead, burying my disgust under a more admirable affect: care. The desire to prevent my domesticated companion from harm. From consuming the carrion. From becoming a little gull-like herself.