To Swallow Us Whole
The winter storm wraps itself around our moss-covered stone cottage, like an old memory, relentless and prodding, flinging snow against the windows with the rage of a forgotten grief. The hard earth hides beneath a crumpling of snow, and I sit here, eyeglasses sliding down my nose, struggling to see through the thickening blur of the storm. The east wind probes through the eaves, pushing at the walls, as though it wants to drag us out into the cold, to swallow us whole.
I think of the red-tailed hawk, its sharp eyes and steady wings, cutting through the wind, searching. Somewhere, deep in the snow, its nest lies, fragile as a dream, alone in the frozen world. I circle the room, as if the walls could contain me, as if the clock ticking in the corner could slow time, give me pause. But there is no halting the coming storm. I watch the snow billow against the window, until the landscape becomes a blur, and the only thing left is the quiet whisper of my breath.
In the distance, I can hear the hawk's wings, though I know it's only the wind buffeting a stray plastic bag caught in the branches of a leafless birch tree. The solace I seek is in the waiting, the understanding that everything turns in a circle. Winter will break. The egg will hatch. I will see clearly again. For now, all I can do is hold the warmth of the turf fire, hold the comfort of the banked blaze, and let the storm rage.
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Author's Note
Thoughts on a recent storm. No discernible plot, but the structure of three paragraphs is the best I can hope for.
Ahhhh.... Thank you. Lovely depiction of winter and a winter storm. Love the hawk and narrator comparison. Very effective.
Storms do try to reign us in but will pass. Excellent work.*
Love the winter stormy scene.
"the understanding that everything turns in a circle."
Once a hawk visited me on my lawn. I told him I was honored by the visit, he looked at me, I looked at him, and then he flew away.
Hawks abide, Darryl. Love their presence.
Love your work James, great respect to you. I imagine the west coast of Mayo. Facing into that wind coming across from the now-home of so many of our ancestors. Please don't abuse my imaginings by telling me it's somewhere in the land of America. My own da took us south, to the land down under. Such is life, as Ned Kelly said. Not to worry. Like Kathleen, we'll take us home again some day. Even if only to the plastic bag which hangs on the limb of your mythological tree. Reality gets you in the end. We are all but poets and slaves, James (Midnight Oil: Capricornia). Both being equally noble.