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December
Two men stood at the top of the hill, looking down. The sun was just beginning to set over the ocean, tinting the sky and the clouds murderous hues, seagulls black streaks against the dying light.
"Look at those crazy birds," said the first man, shading his eyes with one hand against the sun. "Look at those crazy birds swooping and diving, swooping and diving, catching a last fish or two before going to bed. They're perfectly and completely blind as soon as the sun goes down, you know."
"No, I didn't know that," replied the second man. He was slightly smaller than the first man, and was able to use his companion's shadow as a shield against the fading light. He was watching the birds as well, but not thinking about birds at all.
"Oh, yes. That's why so many early-morning fishermen find drowned birds trapped in their nets. The silly creatures get greedy and dive straight into the trawling nets at night, get trapped in the nets and drown, you see."
"Ah." The second man nodded his head, not so much in agreement, but in recognition of his companion having spoken. He was watching the lights sparking alive on the horizon, strings of Christmas bulbs decorating the drab oil derrick platforms ten miles out to sea.
"Although sometimes, they don't drown. They get wrapped up in the webbing close enough to the surface to be able to breathe, but they still die. They freeze to death, or come close enough to it that they die within a couple of days anyway. My daughter brought home a seagull some fisherman had given to her, see. We tried everything to keep that poor bird alive, but it died anyway. It just sat at the bottom of the cage, all the time shivering."
"That's terrible."
"Ah, it's life. I felt awful for my daughter, though. She was only thirteen at the time, and it completely destroyed her for at least a day. She was such a sensitive person, such a sensitive little person back then."
The rim of the sun had touched and sank a little below the horizon. It was now possible to look full on the glowing orb without damaging one's eyes. The clouds had faded to magenta and lavender, blue and purple. Behind them, the sky had turned a deep, cornflower blue.
The boardwalk below them had emptied of skate boarders and cyclists, while the stream of foot traffic-power walkers and joggers-had steadily increased. The second man found himself trying to pick out people he recognized, a familiar face among the blond ponytails and crew cuts. He caught himself looking for a specific face and stopped himself short, angrily shaking his head, trying to clear the unwanted image from his head. The first man looked over at him, curious, a concerned look on his face.
"Would you like to go back in?" the first man asked. He looked back over across the ocean, the birds temporarily forgotten.
"Not yet." The second man pushed his hands down deep into his pockets and fiddled with his jacket lining. He desperately wanted a cigarette, but he had given those up for good as well.
"I'd tell you if I'd heard anything," the first man said softly. He was looking down at the ground now, his eyes suddenly heavy and tired. "You'd be the first person I'd call."
"I know that."
"You're a part of this family now, too, even if, God forbid, she never comes back. I want to make that perfectly clear. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Thank you." The second man took a deep breath and took his hands out of his pockets. Another group of blond ponytails passed beneath their post, following the boardwalk to the underside of the pier, and again, he looked for one specific face. "I think I'd like to go in now," he said.
Holly Day Holly Day's poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have most recently appeared in Canadian Woman Studies, Skyway News, and Ruah.
She currently works as a reporter and a writing instructor in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and lives with her two children and husband.
Her hobbies include skateboarding, crocheting, and trying to peaceably communicate with uncooperative vending machines.
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