High above the street, in the half light of a morning that held the prospect of burning gold, the gulls moved back into their tenement. They creaked and groaned in turn as they kicked last year's thin bed out and away onto the faded bronze of the mossy rooftop.
Restless like me today, they cannot settle. Eventually, they come to a quiet stand. When I look out later, they are still standing there in a flood of moonlight.