Owing to my half-hearted pursuit of rarer wings, I find myself returning—again and again—to the incidental sovereigns of the shoreline: the gulls. They require no pilgrimage, no whispered coordinates, no patient staking out of reed beds at dawn. They are simply there—abundant, unapologetic, prevailing.
Along the coast, gulls stitch the horizon together. They stand like punctuation marks on pylons, patrol the tideline with bureaucratic diligence, and lift in sudden white gusts when the wind shifts its mind. While I may have failed to chase the elusive heron or the shy tern, the gulls present themselves with democratic generosity—every outing a parliament of pale feathers and sharp eyes.
They dominate the littoral theatre. Where there is tide, there are gulls. Where there is trawler wake, there are gulls. Where there is salt on air and chips in hand, there are certainly gulls. Their prevalence is not mere presence but occupation—an ecological tenancy secured by adaptability and audacity.
So my coastal portfolio, sparse in exotic rarity, fills instead with these commonplace mariners. Incidental, perhaps—but never absent.
Sony A7RV
FE 70-200mm f4 G
Linking Saturday Critter
