The Seagull
I tried to take a picture. It was there right in front of me on the glass as clear as a bell, wings splayed out with its head clearly defined. But like a ghost it seemed to disappear when the lens was pointed in its direction. A seagull had crashed into our front window while we were away at work and left a perfect dusty imprint of its outline right smack dab in the center. Out on the lawn was a ring of feathers where, what I suppose was a crow, had attacked it’s dead or maimed body and plucked out it’s feathers before finally devouring its meal. I wanted to preserve it somehow, maybe take the glass out of the window or transfer the impression onto something. Surely this would be great art if I could just find a way to save it. This had everything I thought great art to be; imagery both beautiful and horrid at the same time. The great drama of life and death’s circle, unwrapped in a single moment using feathers no less. All this captured in a gossamer imprint that seemed to get fainte...