I am a seagull, and this beach is mine. People arrive with towels and sunscreen and a lunch they carried up from the car. They pick their spot with great care, they lie down, and they close their eyes. That last part is the one I wait for. Then it is one delivery, from a good height, onto whoever chose most carefully of all. Come and fly me. It is the only job I have.
And my job is to stop you. That is all it is. You pick the one who chose the best spot; I take you out of the sky before you get there. Ten a day. ⋀
And yet the beach keeps getting painted.
So this is where the chicken legs come from. You never stand on anything. The whole career happens in the air and ends with letting go — there is not one moment in it that would build a leg.
Correct, and I have never needed one.