First flight, a juvenile gull lands heavy on the balcony. She’s scared. Parents, sentinels. The community is a riot.

I’m going to call this mottle-beauty a gwylet, after Welsh gwylan for gull and ‘et, as in cygnet, owlet.

After hours, she finds her way to the edge, and swoops again, wind through her virgin feathers.

To another, lower shiny, slate roof.

Landing, slips down, backwards, wings stretched. Friction.

Stops. Climbs ugly to a tiny notch. Breathes.

I’m with her parents, on guard, until nightfall. But in the morning, they are all gone. #gwylets #gulls

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