I'd drink with the likes of such metaphorical sailors of yonder.
Until the synapses stop firing, if only they would.
My wit and mouth. My own detriment.
Manicured lawns, above ground chlorinated bodies of water. I'm unsure of the use.
The walkers there seem displeased at my bathing. The sting on my wounds this water causes is pronounced.
Yet there seem to be some disinfecting properties I am unsure if beneficial.
I take refuge under an uptooted tree. A den of tendrils and boulder.
I tuck my beak under wing and shut my eyes.
I listen for snapping twigs.
I know a Sebastopol to the west on a small ramshackle homestead. Maybe it's time to depart.
This promenade has run it's course.
I cannot fly far with these injuries. If at all. Out of sorts as I am. Overfed on bread, with punctures and torn flesh, dried from the saltwater.
Muscovy aren't ones for flight in fear. But rather methodical, considered and intermittent, travel.
I preen and submerge in saltwater to disinfect and remove the eggs of festering insects. The wounds sting.
I had absconded to the coast to avoid such accostings. Maybe I belong in the city of saplings, conifers and brush.
I do miss the stagnant ponds and freshwater runoffs and streams and rivers and lakes inland though.
I woke up battered in the dirt. Salty sand on my lips. The damn foxes carted me off.
If so. Why have I made it through?
I vaguely remember the croons of seagulls, maybe it was them scared the bastard off. Left me for dead.
But, they did spare ripping me to shreds in lieu of the canine.
I need to tend these wounds.
I am indeed.
A duckhead.
Practicality overrides coveting. I enjoy less. And get more from it. Sometimes a simple dirt bath is all one needs.
The gulls gather along the beach and pier, scavenging and robbing from those less fortunate to rule the coasts.
A putrid slime of starches and sugars, Stale in the open, their plunder.
Their guffaw as piercing as it is indulgent. I hiss and wander i an opposing direction. As I have no patience for the sort.
Back near the promenade. The walkers dilligently shuffle along. Past food carts, clothing shops, goodies and trinkets and bobbles. Heads contorted downward, affixed to screens of vibrancy.
Even the lightning bugs can't compete for the impressive liquid crystal luminescence anymore.
I waddled a long the edge as to not be trod on.
Visiting a small pond, I paddle, splash water onto my back, and wash my face.
Painted turtles sunbathe on exposed rocks along the shore.
I remain wary of their giant snapping counterparts lurking beneath the surface, patient for the opportune offering of a foot.
Despite having the ability of flight, I generally choose to remain on flat surfaces or around water. Flying is as much a chore as it is a view.
Perhaps it's domestication.
The seagulls squabble above. The sun crests the horizon, I sip my coffee as a crow calls out, perched upon the street lamp.
Time to find some grubs.
The full moon wanes tonight. Another cyclical marvel, a celestial body of dust and rock, reduced to normalcy. The expectation of another day.
I exhale a soft laugh, the fragility of it all amusing me.
I scuffle down the promenade onto the beach. The cool sand beneath my palmated feet.
I gather with a gander of misfits at the watering hole. The geese may be quite the honkers, but are less imposing than first impression.
The mallards are quite the ephemeral sort, however, and unable to hold dilligent conversation.
I ask someone for the time. They do not, however, understand qweks or interpretive head bobs and shoo me away.
I cannot wear a wristwatch.
Curse these wings.
The boardwalkers toss me bread and popcorn. Carrying a .38 seems imposing enough to get them to provide me nourishment.
Perhaps one day one of them will be so kind as to break an egg for me. Although they seem unaware I would indulge such a delicacy.
The starch will do. But protein and calcium would be appreciated.
I awaken in the underbrush, taking note of the reduction in temperature presented by shortening days.
I agreeably bob my head, hiss, and light a cigarette.
Derelict beachfront. Littered wrappers. Beverage straws. Remnants of fried dough. Powdered confection, glistens.
The moonlight sparkles on shimmering sea, crests breaking on shore.