What I Mean To Say 

Maureen Ryan Griffin 

How have I never noticed

a gull partake

with such nonchalance

of its sunrise breakfast,

clamping its prey

in its mouth to carry

it from the ocean’s edge

before beak stabs

again and again

into body, plucking

meat from a crab

that does not go gentle into

being eaten, jerking, waving

its claws in what looks

to me like protest

and still I don’t step away

until the gull finishes,

not long after

the crab’s shuddering

stops, leaving

a small litter

of shell and cartilage

I wouldn’t recognize

for what it was

had I not been standing here

as the sun kindles

the morning, here where

I came to drink in

a glorious dawn.