Toward evening at Crystal Springs Lake a cone of gulls is circling, hundreds of them. Though the usual darkening hump of sea fog rises over the low coast range, sunlight pours on the birds. The habit of flight is on them, the praise inherent in soaring. Flying is what they do, what they can do. They are reluctant to settle on the water for the evening to become mere floating things. They have so much lift, so much altitude, feel the sweep of their white wings, its rarity. It is not a reasoned matter. It is gladness lying within the possibilities of gulls, the sun conjoining, and the air, and my eyes.