I nearly stumbled on it. The gull’s body stretched across our path like a rumpled blanket, unkempt feather spikes punctuating the lifeless disarray. Our feet lost the rhythm, ripples encircling our ankles. Wind and waves never paused or hesitated, steadily carving new boundaries to its fluctuating frontier.

“It’s dead…” I mumbled.

On the way out, I had barely noted the gulls. Only a delicate memory remained. Its careening dip, skimming over the distant rows of rising waves. No trace of its recent plaintive call, though it echoed through me.

“Not dead actually,” she countered. “It’s just a shell. The bird has flown away.”