A New Language

One late March morning, we shed our skin under the sun and a flight of an oystercatcher, a stagger of a wing made us look at the grey blue sea, suspended as if the world at the back faded, eiders on the blue and a flock of lapwings in the distant mist soared into the air as if the vaults of the land collapsed. Starry white wings on a cobalt blue, their movements nesting a new language. Silently everything recoils, tears are gone, the breathing of the world is back to normal. Sorrow and its wrapping are abandoned, every being has drowned for the other, down to a Hades, a mute black eye disappearing in a gleam of a reflection.