she sits on the beach
dunes cushioning her body
limbs leaving an imprint
sand seasoning her skin with salt

her ringless fingers
clutch the bread
ripping glutenous strains
from the house of crumbs

the bonnet is wrapped tightly
around her sun weary head
shielding her ears from the
wind's distracting duress

raucously scatting and dancing
seagulls fly like plastic bags
tossed about in the wind
hoping that they can bag some bread

it is with birds that she finds comfort
in the company of strangers
their beaks are not sticky
nor are they plotting some kind of felony

as far as she can tell