Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine # 14

Sentinel He is late today, by a full ten minutes.

Perhaps he is AWOL, has joined a new outfit, been assigned somewhere else.

But I know that this is just pure speculation on my part.

He will arrive, he always does, just as morning fog parts like a curtain and announces the presence of speckled ocean.

And then they show up, the whole squadron flying in unison, white in the sun, big bodied, ready to plunge like bombardiers.

But he veers off at the last second, flies off on his own, due east to the last column, chases off the singular gull that has roosted on his private spot.

Then, he assumes his post.

Let the others work, dive again and again for their food.

From his lookout he can see the whole pier, already full with people,