Tonight I heard the blackbird's Braille and caught our Moon in eastern sky. We, islanders, have endured gales instead of snow. Morning downpours led way to light. The air was as freezing as our wild North Atlantic. The Westerlies feel so bitter, as sun ventures across our sky. February, the coldest, harshest month with a desire to make you feel its sharpest claws... Raw, incisive, as wolf fangs through the flesh of a buffalo, and yet as invisible as a dream, snowless winter grips you and turns you blue. I could have felt on some shoreline in Hudson Bay; along the coast of Labrador... Those cold deserts, tundra landscapes, where permafrost still dreams of warmth and waders' calls, feel just like home. Each tongue of land holds its secrets.
Mine stands so proud in-between North Sea and Atlantic. Battered and constantly windswept, the island withstands anger from currents, rotating blades of each roller, ending their race on sculpted sand or against rocks, stacks and natural arches. Earthly Rodin. They shape our shores like a sculptor... They carve through basalt and Old Red Sandstone without shame and carry the world in their bellies. Every pebble locks its nomad's tale.
And yet I grab those precious stones, as I retrace my steps back home.
Birds unfolds wings to brave currents and reach heavens.
Sweet freedom, flowing in my heart.
By sunset time, I watched gardens fill with our most common visitors. Since we planted trees in not such a distant past, they have now grown to perching springs, well above ground and feline eyes. As soon as I opened the door onto the sliding sun, the sky unveiled earth symphony, as starlings, sparrows and blackbirds hovered around barren branches. So many voices filled our sky.
gathering on top branches from June's secluded garden and fly off for roosting time.
Life, a constant flight for survival.
Another night, morrow or year.
I wonder if they too stick to almanacs.