Prancing around the sand, chests puffed with pride over ownership of the coast along which they roam. Kings of their beach. Scavengers of what isn’t theirs. They take sandwiches and french fries. Poop on those plebes who don’t share or who appear as though they’re having too much fun. Squabble with their greedy peers when they try to encroach on their territories.
“This is my land! Don’t you see my castle over there?!” they squawk at the webbed enemy who tiptoes too close to his neighbors’ property line.
The poor, dilapidated castle, built on weak foundation, sags under the sun’s watchful glare. The looming tide will inevitably claim it as its own. The displaced seagull will have to find another home.