In the marsh
By the traffic-loud highway
Gulls stand in hundreds.

They seem frozen,
Locked in position,
But cocked to spring.

All face west,
Waiting
For something,

Some sign
To break the trance
And spiral them into the sky.

Then a single gull
Breaks, flies,
And the rest follow,

A mad scramble
Into the murky air,
A flare, then gone.

Thus are mobs led
By one decisive deed,
Right or wrong.