The wind is whirling the gulls br over a white-capped sea br here, where Pacific ends br br On our westward way br we seek by this wild coast br what we know not yet br br Only the echoing cry br of the circling gulls, br red-tipped beaks br glassy-eyed br uncaring br if they know, br or know not, br what message is borne br on the wind’s gusts br or rolls ashore br on the breaking waves br carried five thousand br sea miles by an ocean pulse br br The wind is chill br br We clamber back br into the calm cabin br of our vehicle, br head south br br Perhaps, br tomorrow, br we may be wiser br than the gulls.