Wheeling Gull Isle this is the part where you run

The sea was as tranquil as it could ever be—shifting in perpetuity, each pulse a whisper. Snow drifted as a lazy haze from lavender clouds. Where the marbled blue of the ocean touched the sky there comes a glimmer of tangerine, the palest of shades, bleeding out and fading. 

It was tranquil until it simply wasn't—the call of something out in the water beginning some sort of transition, heralding the end of day. Something sharp and quick hastens in to the sky; sickle-shaped wings held aloft, catching the light, and suddenly an uproar spills forth. The gull has found something after all of its waiting, all of its scouring during the day. It spies something netted in weeds and layered atop the dry timbers which only ever see life when the tide comes in: —some sort of body?

The gull is hungry, but unlike the newest clutch which has recently begun to nest with the next generation, he is old and wise (for something as inane as a seagull) and so it does not screech, but circles overhead, watching for dangers — drifting closer with each aerial pirouette.