Sea gulls line up for take-off,
face the wind, feel it run over their feathers,
calculate the right moment to life.

There’s an order here.
Liftoff progresses from front to back
as laggards groom their chest feathers
or peck at a pest underwing.

The next in line lifts a leg,
tests the velocity, then,
leery of its force,
sneaks to the back of the pack.

The last four preen and peck
in companionable silence
beneath brilliant sun and booming surf.
There’s no rush to join the bustle of life.

This poem has nothing to do with mythology, but I’m posting it anyway to Totally Optional Prompts.