Seagulls
By Warren Rochelle
Darian woke up early his first Sunday morning in Bath, and after scrounging breakfast, he hurried down five flights of stairs and outside for a walk. He felt like he was entering a dream. I’m in Bath; I’m in England. Just two days ago he had been boarding a plane in Richmond, back in Virginia.
The air was cool and breezy, the sky gray and overcast, promising rain. At the Bog Island News, he bought a Guardian, postcards of the Abbey, and a Double Decker bar. I’m in Bath. I’m in England. Darian sat on a bench near Bath’s five hundred year old Abbey and listened to a young red-haired woman busker sing about unrequited love. The couple on the nearby bench was more interesting as they pondered one of those maps that are always so hard to fold back up. He thought p
