Saturday, September 22, 2007
When we walk.
We walk in the morning, early, before the birds have sung the light into the day, the sun into the sky. We watch as all comes to light and the darkness of the flying mice is chased from the sky.
We walk in the middle of the day when the sun casts shadows beneath, in the late evening when shadow cats stretch out and yawn and the sun is low.
We walk in the spring freshness of budding blossoms, in the heat of the summer when we pant like tigers, seeking shade, in the cool of autumn when the bracken competes with our coats and in winter.
We walk at night when the sky is a blanket of stars wrapped around the world and shooting stars rain down bringing wishes, when air is full of the small squeals of flying mice who silhouette their wings against the shining moon.
We walk in the rain and our fur makes wet points and we flick with our paws in the puddles and mud.
We walk when the windcat is wild and she pushes our ears flat to our heads and we run to shelter from her roar in the lee of her playful paws.
We walk in the summer evening when the warmth of the air pulls the scent from the flowers and leaves the perfume hanging thick, from honeysuckle and heather.
We walk when the butterflies fill the air, and dragon flies with shining rattle-wings.
We walk in the cold when our warm feet melt footprints into white frost.
But we do not yet walk in snow. We have heard of snow, but we have not yet seen it.
When it comes, then we will walk in snow.