Wheeling Gull Isle the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking

the girl does not know exactly when she had pitched over the cliffs, but she knows it has been an eternity since her bedraggled form hit the waves. an eternity since her wildly flailing limbs have touched anything solid,  until there had been something other than the brine invading her every sense. her throat and lungs moved labourously to keep alive her ailing form, burning with exertion and the ocean that seemed to soak into her. for so long had she been tempted by the beauty that was the sea, and now that it had her in its grasp, it seemed to delight in pummeling her tiny form with all its power. 

her paw touches something solid. so alien is the sensation that it jolts the girl, bringing a final bout of energy. she flails, moved out of the listless drifting punctuated only by her efforts to keep her muzzle above water. again does her paw touch solid, and then another, and then, by some form of miracle, her battered form is hurled upon the coast by the sea, as if out of spite. with land comes the end to the constant struggle against the waves, and, sensing this, her form ceases movement, and the girl succumbs to pure exhaustion as she lays pitifully in the might of the storm.