Stavanger Bay seagulls

blossom was growing. lestan had carried her for so often than it seemed he did not remember when he had stopped, when she had grown into her limbs and legs, when she had become almost such a picture of reverie to his eyes that her very smile reminded him of them both.
"that is a crab, blossom," lestan murmured in a voice that still was muted from what he had done.
he touched its still carapace with his paw. "when they move, be careful. they can pinch."
his eyes found her own, and he encouraged her to come closer, showing her the stalked eyes, the empty claws.