On the chalet roof opposite ours
the seagulls strut and march,
patrolling their runway.
Machine gun cackles warn
errant pigeons to land elsewhere.
On a signal known only to them
the seagulls take off, flying high.
Then feathered dive bombers peel off out of the sun,
screaming they swoop
no ice-cream cone is safe.
Observation shows the seagulls have a strict hierarchy.
They know who should have the best perch
who screeches early to wake the tourists
but most important of all,
which of them gets to shit all over our cars.