It was morning, and
the sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.
A mile from shore a fisching boat chummed the water, and word for Breakfast Flock flashed through the air, till a crowd of a thousand seagulls came to dodge and fight for bits of food. It wa another busy day beginning.
But way off alone, out by himself beyond boat and shore, Jonathan Livingston Seagull was practising. A hundred feet in the sky he lowered his webbed feet, lifted his beak, and strained to hold a painful hard twisting curve through his wings. The curve meant that he would fly slowly, and now he slowed until the wind was a whisper in his face, until the ocean stood still beneath him. He narrowed his eyes in fierce concentration, held his breath forced one … single … more … inch … of … curve…. Then his feathers ruffled, he stelled and fell.