August 4, 2008

In this city on the water, seagulls holler overhead, louder than the trucks rattling by on the freeway below. One morning, metal scraped a long, angry tear on the freeway, and for a moment, the neighborhood silenced, like one of those moments when every conversation at the party stops. Even the gulls wheeled mutely, headed back to the port, outrunning the stop-action below. They left as if they knew it would be only minutes before the helicopters arrived to slice the air into ribbons of rhythmic noise.

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