I have just watched the first mass migration of the spring, perhaps a thousand cranes in just one of the skeins, flying in reasonably ordered formation, heading north east. Their trumpeting call is triumphant, sonorous, stay in line, don’t stray, keep in the slipstream if you’re tired.
Home calls, spring, the nest, and the mate for life to help raise the new chicks. No one is left behind, all take turns to fray a path through the winds. Only birds, but can we claim the same honour?
cloud-streaked blue rain-rippled
ocean of feathers
an ocean of cloud
billows on a grey sea
rain in the wind
through sea mist
and rolling cloud the geese
racket in the sky
arrowhead pointed homeward
The longest journey starts with just one step. Whoever said that probably wasn’t thinking of that step at the cellar head that I missed, sending me arse over tit into eternity. They were most likely imagining some sage-looking Asiatic with all his belongings tied in a neat bundle and slung over his broad shoulders, facing an empty, sinuous road with, in the distance, a range of misty blue mountains, swooping cranes and a new life beneath the boughs of a picturesque pine forest.
I wish I still had two legs beneath me, feet ready to walk the distance and a blue yonder beckoning, instead of this. This what? This falling? Shouldn’t it have stopped by now? By rights I should have bashed my brains out on the stone flags of the cellar floor minutes ago. Still the blackness flies past in rags and tatters. Not really black, more grey, with lighter patches and the soft touch of feathers. The feeling of falling changes to one of upward movement, of soaring, and the pitch black of the cellar is growing lighter, a misty blue. In the new light, I see the tattered, feathery darkness swooping past.
If you like the shorts, why not try the longs?