As I walked back from lunch today, a bit nipped by the mildest bit of cold, I looked up and saw a seagull flying in a frighteningly appealing blue sky. We are six hours' drive from the sea, but I know that seagulls are also lake gulls and pond gulls and creek gulls and river gulls. Usually they come inland to hunt food, and usually it is warmer than today when they come inland. I believe I would term those gulls "puzzled" gulls, and, rightly or wrongly, I felt a little puzzled about them as I watched them fly. I'd be in Galveston, if I were a gull, but then again, I am not a gull.
Gulls spend an awful lot of time in poems and in New Age books about transformation and change. They are also dab hands at French fries and admirable diving technique. They tend to hang around fishing boats, and waddling on beaches they could easily fly over. In December, in Galveston, they no doubt soar, and hover, and feel the coursing of the winds. For that matter, that's what they do in Garland, and that's enough for them to do, without all the complicated metaphysical explanations of who they are and what they are all about doing and being.