Wheeling Gull Isle nevermore

Simeon Redhawk never slowed down.

He'd crossed the sand bridge three days ago, when the sun was low and the tides had divided the sea. Raucous cries had welcomed him, and he'd dove into the sanctuary like one of those wheeling gulls.

Simeon could smell his family in the salt brine and the sweet swell of lavender along the southern hills. Each day, he raced a different quarter of the island. Waves caught like laughter in his ears, songbirds like hymns, and the faded thoughts of yesterdays rose like a new sun. Every morning they were closer than they'd been in many moons, yet far as they'd always been.

And he never stopped moving.

On this third evening, Simeon lugged a large bass from the ocean and settled on the rocks. The sun lit the waves between the mainland and the island with a ruddy glow, and the red skies promised fair weather tomorrow. A small raven hopped along a stone not far from where he'd settled.

A little far from home, aren't you? he murmurmed. Then, tearing off a morsel of the fish, he tossed a piece to the bird.