The unopened lid

On the early morning of the weekend, I walked by the East River, where no one had walked. Only the footprints of ducks and seagulls continued to scatter on the sand by the river, leaving a faint mark.

Ducks and seagulls were scattered. There's a gull that won't move.  He has only one leg. He stared at me without any agitation, as if he had given up flying. How can you lose your legs and live differently in this rugged world?

I heard the sound of a ship coming in and leaving, the sound of waves hitting under the bridge of the promenade, and the sound of the wind shaking against the railing of the dock that carries passengers. When the ship to Long Island City in the north and another to Dumbo in the south leave, I leave, too.

A loud, murky noise was heard in the vacant lot on the way back to the home. A hasty sound broke the morning silence. A seagull was struggling to eat the food left in a plastic take-out pail. The lid was closed. It was frustrating that cannot eat. He looked hungry and haggard.

I looked around to open the lid. The fence surrounding the vacant lot prevented me from entering the vacant lot. I was as stuffy as a seagull. When I approached, the sound stopped for a moment, then constant throughout my return home.

The next morning on the walk, I went back to the place where the seagull had been pecking loudly yesterday. The empty plastic can was in the corner of the fence. The constant pecking force pushed the barrel toward the fence and the lid must have opened. By now, the seagull is flying smoothly with a ship he called from somewhere.

Wouldn't my eagerness to make a decent piece of work is like a seagull that wants to open a lid?