When we step out of our motel room, someone is throwing bread crumbs off the balcony above us. Sea gulls are everywhere, swooping and squawking.
“Hurry,” my husband says as we make our way through them.
When we look back from the beach, the ground where the birds are feeding is undulating like a gray, feathered ocean. “I’ve never seen so many sea gulls,” he says. “There must be hundreds of them.”
“That’s nothing,” I say. “Just before my father came home from Vietnam in ’68, there were ravens everywhere. Sitting on top of the streetlights. Shitting all over the sidewalks.”
