The seagull soars and sweeps against bright blue skies. White wings glow in the sun as it whirls and twirls around the crowd. They flock together and form their own crowd. Each cries to the other, shares the laughter, the adventure. Everything is loud, bright, an opportunity for the taking. The salt spray is crystal armour on its back and nothing can bring it to ground. But she must come down, she just doesn’t know when.
The turtle sits quietly, watching, thinking. It’s pretty patterned shell hides it amongst the seaweed. No prying eyes here, no conversations, no intrusions. A thought appears on the tide, but retreats on the next wave. Danger once sensed, cannot be ignored. The head retreats under the shell - a safe, dark armour. But he must come out, he just doesn’t know when.
When is always the question – is this week, today, this hour, the seagull or the turtle? Or will it be a battle - that terrible state of indecision that tires me to the bone?
The seagull cannot stifle its cries, nor can the turtle soar through the skies. Both are extremists and neither likes to share. I am learning to be the child on the shore observing them both, afraid of neither, enamoured of neither. The child on the shore does not enter into battle, she accepts both for what they offer.
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