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The Screaming Seagulls

Almost the end of March.
It is warm
and the seagulls are screaming.
The sun is turning buildings into
blinding instruments.
Bottles clink, 
and I like to think
they are filled with alcohol.
A shadow passes overhead.
That spindly, isolated bit of heather 
Indicates left.
I cannot see the whole of its dance. 
Someone on another hillock mentions wifi
and I am reminded
of exactly where I am. 

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