The Seagull on the Roof

I am a seagull.

Sat bold and certain on the roof of the house in Cornwall — the one I’ve seen a thousand times in dreams and know by soul, not map.

I’m not quiet. I’m making that sound you know — the loud, shrill, obnoxious one that always feels like mockery.

Because it is.

It’s laughing at the illusion that this is imaginary.

It’s mocking the disbelief, the delay, the doubt.

And it’s laughing because it already knows: I’m coming.

Soon.

This cry is not just noise. It’s a declaration.

It rings out over the bay, off the brick, across the rooftops.

It tells anyone or anything still enough to listen that something is returning —

That someone has remembered.

It is joy. It is prophecy. It is defiance.

And it is mine.