Do you long for wings?
Break horizons, free of earth -
Oh what beauty there
Winds gusting the darkness. It woke me. Trees fretting, a great hurly burly roaring sound. I stood at my window. Clicked open the latch & let the night in. Eyes search for the horizon. Seeking that first chink of light. Time flexes, shortens. Feet bare, cold sea lapping, waiting for the sun to rise. It makes me wonder how fragile wings find shelter when all is pared back. Strange how landscape & psyche coalesce. Winter strips us bare. Waves fierce, sea curling into breakers. snow caps on the Beinns & waves. Tides sank low at sunrise. Stones gleaming, a shiver off an empty moon. Then. A great silence. Strange how a shoreline empties, stills. And how solitude fills. Minutes drift. I collect feathers. Strewn over the rocks & sand. Ghosts of songs. Prayer flags. Sentience. I hold them up. Feel the wind catch them. As thoughts uplift. Seahawks, gulls, & eagles. Light drenching wing tips, a thrall of voices keening, sifting the snow caps, wheeling through high passes, feathers slicing air. Journeying. Is life. Is of vision. Of freeing our senses. To dare to dream & inhabit other worlds. A Spirit freed is of sun, its fire & blueing, its freezing stars & cold moon. These wilds transport us there. Birds are of such emotional intelligence. I have hand reared wild ones. With each, an extraordinary close bond. Each traced my cheek with a beak before sleeping. Slept in my shoulder’s nook. They lived with me until they flew freely. I watched them fly away. But still they return. Today, I look to the skies but they are empty. Clouds & the wind gusting through Sifting the wet storm wrack, I seek the beautiful driftwood. You make your own wings, uplift, & journey. Call it habit or necessity. But you do this. However it finds you. Whenever you can. On a tide cast rock of an island. In the Hebrides. My Daily Raw Swim.
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