Dave Bonta gives us three quick snapshots of a place, each only a few lines long, and never tells us how to feel about any of them. In the first, a boy shoots an air gun into the water at sunset. It's a odd, slightly unsettling image: a beautiful evening, and a pointless little act of aggression against the sea. In the second, a bus and a car squeeze past each other at a standing stone, so something ancient and fixed sits right in the path of ordinary traffic. In the third, a fat gull strolls casually through a crowded campground, as if it owns the place.
The speaker stays almost invisible, simply watching, and the poem's feeling comes from what's noticed. The mood is wry and observant, with a gentle humor. Old and new, wild and human, keep brushing up against each other, and nobody seems bothered. The island feels lived-in, a little awkward, and quietly funny.