Flight.
The wind whips in my face, a cold, wet reminder that I am flying. The tips of my wings stretch out to either side of me, the raucous calls of my flight mates bringing me back to the present, away from the time that I had to learn to fly, and the time when I was not as graceful as this. Narean stays close to me. She does not like the other seagulls, not at all. Her coloration is unique, a black splotch of feathers, an unsightly black splash against an otherwise enviably creamy crop of feathers. So often teased, this is our first solo flight, and she is already feeling the stress of being different, of being marked.
I flap my wings strongly, air currents pushing against my vanilla white feathers, and the sky my territory, I cannot help it, the freeness of the sky beckons, and I dance with it, flapping my wings, feeling the wind press my belly, and then, I dive, the air shrieking deafeningly past my ear-holes. Narean joins me and together, we pull out of the plunge, snatching fishes out of the water, as the sardine pack scatters, we curve away, victorious.
The other female seagulls call at Narean in jealousy, the best flier in the whole seagull colony choosing her… I smile. I have never been anything close to a conventional seagull. I am bigger than the average, and have a wingspan larger than most males. But I have never competed for females, only Narean, and she is special. I like that. Special.
The air becomes warm and still and I hold my wings wide open, and float up on the thermal draft, then, I speed downwards, a seagull